Stark blue suns are her eyes,
Set in the redden cosmos of breaking hair,
Light is caught in rings
And broke are mine as they shy from heat;
The cauldron of spheres,
That rope in the twines of constellations.

In fractals of tearing blood;
Which stream in a body so like heavens,
She plays with sprung time
And the arrow of reason is forced beyond,
Into the eyes unknowing;
How the flesh is shorn in the cloths of stars.

Such cold fire in those eyes,
Neutron blue is the inert crush of gravity;
Unloosed with surrender
And in a field of meteors lies the alchemy;
Crash of rarified metals,
She smelts of iridium blast, casts into soul.

Her eys are for makings,
Planets collide to form creations dream;
To bury sorrows in rock,
As it flows up from an orb into her mantle;
A plateau of cloud for man,
To reach birth of light, christen in goddess.

.
We trod in steps without spark,
A careful journey one remakes,
With days of dreams' surrender,
O love— is but a promised land.

In our youth precious time reigns
And greetings are met with sorrow,
Maidens and lads, each entertains
Graces above us, Venus and Apollo,

Gods on high, who told us stories,
Of the cloud nursery, of mountains
Keep and comings of celestial glory,
Not of gentle caress to windy hands,

Of shy indifferences, the trials of lot,
Nor the endless engulf, still desires,
In this land of lost, unmoving gusts,
Go those who shuffle— souls entire.

.
O the trender souls who keep
Spewing their ladled ornaments,
Words even a dull, starving bird
Would not gobble, plastic pieces,
Rambles of thought, unthought,
Pretty sounding, shiny trinkets,
Merely nailed by some old book,
Or a dog eared dictionary, maybe,
Some pulpy article wherein hacks,
Dreamt with loss, sad aspirations,
These are the dug trailings of fools,
Lazy, writers who fancy themselves,
Fancying themselves, in a black mirror,
Merciful as imagination and delusion,
O how the neophyte sings without any
Voice, nor depth, nor taste, nor blood,
Conscious revels in unconsciousness,
O but lame awaits the vain, the shallow,
The self proclaimed, the peacock, but, their
Showtime is only something base, something
Not and ghost peculiar, something only a carny
Would know to mock, revile as he promotes.
How glittering are the newest word baubles,
Blathering speak to mask all faceless souls,
Twaddle, twitterings, revered by simpletons.

.
The sun burns cold,
As the light of day is heavy.
Air, suffocates as we stride,
Filled rooms are empty,
To the soul set free.
Celebrate this living,
Wake into death,
Revel in the joy division
Of petrified choice.
Taste the one flavours
Of lime and water
As you tread on others
With feet waiting to crush.
Hear the birdsong  .  .  .
Not for you but the sun.

Lie amazed in the mobile,
Narcotic of the always
New, device and gizmo.
Break from same in a drug,
Especially designed,
Just for anyone, unneeded.
Tear down your dreams
As they slip into unwanted
Fingers never holding.
Take breaths, only after
They are ****** away,
In the stuns of the mediocre
Spectacles that blind.
Love the bodies who leave
Only their flesh to see.

Backward-man loves his dog.
Ties him up before and after
His walks, likes to goad his pet
Too, speaking as the weather wails
And howls then dog looks down,
Sad on his master dumbfounded.
A chain is worn as it scrapes
The ground connecting dog
To his master.  They both love
The sound of it hissing as it strikes
The concrete pathways, sometimes
Man and dog feel free, not a part
Of each other, the chain may break,
And fear is for forks in the road,
The rusty pockmarked grip of his links
Have always been there on walks
Ahead and behind though it makes
Things confusing as if in a dance
And sometimes they wonder which way                                                      
They might end up after all—
And when the dark and golden
Rope, as always, is finally tied
To some old fruit tree, the man
Is happy his dog has both sun
And shade, but also has joy watching
Dog beg for ripe apples he cannot
Reach.  Some people might come
To think that dog thinks those apples
Are not for eating.  Everyone loves
Fruit, don't they?

Backward-man built his dog
A house as cold as a three-
Storied barn, out of things
He could not afford, things much
Too good for dog to not care
About, maybe man built dog's
House for himself, he cannot
Really impress his dog.
Backward-man likes to think
He knows what dog is saying.
Barks and whimpers have deep
Meanings, 'world is a good place,'
Dog says, but when pooch says,
'World is cruel,' crying, disobedient
Whines gets him a serious kick
Out of old anger from backward-
Man.  And man can be a hell-
Hound on his own, the way
He twists and unravels the things
He needs, like truth and food
And love— that goes without
Saying for backward-man hates
His woman, but loves his dog.

.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'

Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'

Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,                                    
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,

Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'

Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'

.
Held in the pens
Of womb, little one
Squirms to see light,
Before the bars of crib
Encroach and bind one
Growing into childhood.
Then to be left off, bounded,
For chaste schools to yearn how
To keep such place whilst learning,
Never knowing that old, bracing sun
Is all around until frightful bell— calls
Recess, for these are the walled gardens
We made for ourselves, the coldest brick
And mortar chambers we place as lambs
Are encased, when finally we are pushed
Into the dark, the drabness, of the drowning
Work a daze whirled, the open prison of our lives.

( Sonnet )*

In the night we are twined shades,
Shadows on the wall, for dances,
The moon in deep groves of sky,
Sweeps us to the childhood land.

With eyes, lodged in beat of sand,
Sometimes we listen as shadows
Travel on green stems into flower
And all the petals and bulbs ring.

There is music in a night garden,
Lambs, dozy lost, counting notes
To fingers, rapt in skinned bodies.

In sleep never the stars outshine
What sparks we drive under lids,
Even shadows are leaved doors.

.
I left the house of the tempest brewing,
Spinning like a rod, spun into flame
And came upon the redwood forest,
Eternal, shouting out heavens name.

The sun was indifferent, the creek shuffled
Its lament, the birds fluted their dirge—
I was so small, in the red giants grove,
Yet, felt so beloved, my pain was purged.

And I warmly came to see again—
My eyes, through the needles drove,
What a trifling is ones fleeting mood,
How true, heroic, immortal is my love.

.
Memories are shuttered—
In the out of doors closing,
For five eternal years we were,
Once married beside a church,
Beside a tomb.

And our hearts were simple, freed
Among the moss of grey stones,
Pebble beach and wayfare wishes
And wild doves seemed always
To be hovering.

And our only bed, growing ever
Cold as a cup of leftover wine—
We drank in sacramental prayers
Never uttered, never declared,
After all that was.

As it was after all, only—
A mere, makeshift dream.