my thoughts, so potent just before--
like fresh-pressed olive drops
that lingered, lipping from the fragrant spout--
now pass, diffuse atop an ocean vast.

i imagine willing it to be a pond,
not for its lesser size alone
but mostly for its calm,
reflective height; yet
these waves are
distort ruthlessness
of liquid dust
by slapping, tower-high
the central ocean rip-whirl tide:
and gone--
as Homer's heroes screaming as they drown,
deaf as oars but for their final gasps
of yearned-for clarity:
of nameless pride's Ithacan king
abrading lustful wrists
restrained to blind a god's son's single eye
by tentacles of twisting, tactful fate.

by threaded loom rethreaded
soon i see my salty self in suit
of sameness, tricking time
by indolence or theft--
from truth, from others' hearths--
the difference winks in bubbles on the cosmic shore...
foam so clean i grin to call it spume,
grin to brace the seabed to my algaed chest
in salinating crush of sand, of blood-sharp shell and rock,
in sungreen warmth of blue and life
in crashing sinus wince
i grit aegean nereids in my sneeze,
splay their formless sexing into pelvic scrapes
of quickened starbursts anciently reborn,
squeezed in pleasure tears and laughing drops--
as all pelagic ***** must
within the pressure of a world,
its breathing darkness spotted with transmuted sun,
expel itself in sensate gusts--
as octopodal spurting flings
in liquid ****** of purpose forth,
(or backwards, sideways, in and out)--
so too i think
and thinking, drown my ink
instead of drowning thinking in my ink














.

I stay awake with stars, thinking of your eyes
amber fields, flecked with golden moons
your lips, red cast by secret coral worlds
swim, my hands you catch in woven nets
roped hair of salt and seaweed curls
hold my breath, catch and save myself
nightly, in the deep end, just before I drown.

For Helene.


Ashes on the water, now.
Love's bones like dust downstream.  
At least it got to see itself in our eyes,
Feel itself between hand holding hand

And whispered caresses.
From pillow talk to fists raised at
Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine
On her balcony to the sound of magpies

We named our neighbours.
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Ended gracefully.

I open hands that held hers and see
Nothing but skin worn by labour,
And air.
Ashes on the water, now.

Embers without a chance against rivers  
Cold with melted mountain snow and
Unyielding differences.
Some loves drown with lungs too full

To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre-
Longboat into the night, ablaze.
King and queen, hand upon hand.
Crowns tied from fresh flowers,

We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Slid apart the way a glacier parts from
The hills; slowly, but with the force

Of its thousands of tons.
Ashes on the water,
Where the ghost of our union rests
Underneath the surface of our memories.

I will remember you.
Until the stars burn out, raining the
Dust of themselves like snow upon
These waters that always are moving.

The science on how it works will take forever to explain.  But in a brief description I will share with you the feeling of light control.

In a normal room lit by normal light bulbs I will test my new found power.  I learned how to do it in my dreams.  For in the dream realm you can turn seconds into centuries and centuries in millenniums.  

Light is something that makes things visible or affords illumination.  Also known as luminous energy and radiant energy. It promotes a sensation produced by stimulation of the organs of sight.   In my dreams I am able to capture such light and glow.  I am able to do this using what I call shadow hands. The shadow men were the ones who taught me how to use such amazing power.

" The shadow men fell from the sky.  They came from the darkness and the light.  They blended in with the stars with the blanket of shadows they wrap themselves with. The light holders of the dream realm."

In the dream realm we can see.  And simply seeing means there is a form of light that can help us see.  I call this " the memory of light. "  For in the dream realm there is no electricity that runs all of the lighting nor is there a sun that lights your dream day.  This means an endless amount of light is stored within our memories.  And we can use this light in such wonderful ways.  
End Notes 1)   3/2/16

You are the words I speak
The pause in between
Where I linger for a while

You are the thoughts I seek
The inspiration from within
Where I submerge denial

You are my heartbeat at its peak
The blood rush through ravine
Where all is cleansed of vile

You are the irrationality I tweak
The insanity that was forseen
Where I lose myself and smile

You are the glow that leaks
The inner beauty that they all mean
Where it paints all I see mile by mile

You are a traveler of the South lands
brown, a leathered skin coyote
desert walker of the Sonoran sands
crafty, black magic witch
a shaman, lucid dreamer
Yaqui Indian spell weaver
of visions, of paintings in the sand
mixing colors, peyote flowers
red, the melting of the aloe bowers
dark blood, the blooming agave towers
thick with snakes, the fire and hiss
that burns black of sacaton grass
the quiver and flash of flying sparks
igniting night, time traveling to the stars.

The pleasure is mine
in a glass of wine

My pleasure is you
in the things that you do

The pleasure is ours
in all the shared hours
we are able to spend together

They're worth more than gold
or riches untold
a pleasure we'll treasure for ever

Now between writings I create a space
so could read in ease and not in stress
to fill me with things I had less
not let my mind be drowned by pace.

Now between writings I create a space
it lessens the hurry kills the stress
helps to see ways find new address
discover light in untrod recess.

Now between writings I create a space
it shows me the order clears the mess
I think now more write down less
my soul is happy to be out of the race.

Now between writings I create a space
it reinvents ways kills the stress
lets me to places I didn't access
of unseen tears unread happiness.