Seeds of pure Brahma appear
In the dark nothingness.

In their infinitesimal
Yet infinite dimensions
They carry the code for all creation.

Some fade away.
Some persist.
Propelled through will,
An urgency to occupy and diffuse.

Annihilation or coalition are inevitable.

Some acquire magnificent tinges
Worthy of acknowledgement.
Others marred and maimed
Are left to wither in exile.

I meditate on the most promising one.
Feel its inarticulatable essence
As the intangible element
Vanquish the void.

The One now unfolds.
Accreting into thoughts
Before passing through
The sieve of judgement.

These thoughts sublime I crystallize.
Choosing at will to blemish them
With motley emotions
Or monolithic reason.

I,
The creator,
Awestruck by my own creation,
The most magnificent in the domain
Wherein I reign supreme,
Hesitate.

I hesitate to articulate.
Knowing full well that tongue
Will never be able to bear
The simple complexity
And the complex simplicity
Of thought.

Mm, yes.  
I find that the sultry of subtlety
does not hide well among the obvious!  
We catch each others eye
across crowded parlors
to steal off in the wings
for sodden romantic whispers.  

Her muted presence is a cloud born
particle of dust –
gathering the purest droplets,
to fall, and
falling waters accreting
into mighty rivers churning earth.  

Shamefully, perhaps by nature of a poetique,
my proclivity is to paint nuance up
like a dime-store ****,
parade her around in metaphors
under my propped writing arm,
my free hand palming a chained timepiece...
Oh how these nuances matter
as I slip a moment back into the pocket of time.

Quasars are very bright galaxies with centers dominated by rapidly accreting black holes, existing somewhere near the beginning of time.*

It’s already dead in its brilliance. Fourteen billion measurements of meaninglessness. Illusionary existence, meant to quantify the moments in which man exists.
Yet compartmentalization is a mythical concept to galactic nuclei.
Remaining outside of quantification.
Not needing its suffocating extractions.

A void predating blood.

Before the beginning of intangible concepts.
Ruling the tangible world of man.

We have perceived a place apart from the temporal.

Now all we can do is make our drinks stronger,
inhale our herb slower.

In desperate attempt to un-see the
Calligraphic scratches on parchment.

Confirming the fact that we no longer exist.
The way that we did…
Before the sad ghosts of quasars scarred our skies.

Dirt Daubers

They float in and out all day
long on low interest wings
cramped toes of abodes
accreting like tamped syllables
compressed into lines, bellow
bad things about the mothers of their
fellows from laced lattice work
**** like champs in the bushes
hip sprung and hands free
while I ignore the noise and hunch
over muddy simile, worry
concentric rings of rhythm  
into pages of imperfect tubes
just waiting for habitation.

sinks
leaching into
my hollows

immobilized maybes
orbit the shatter
of our halos

until
it doesn't

and light shrapnel
starts accreting

Some version of you
accreting
stalagmite be you

Some version of you
inflaming
coarse-ware are you

Some version of you
concluding
am-ending by you

All of your solidities
are stubornities
stalagmites in your
cavernous skull
reaching out for
stalactites from stars
or imaginary skulls
similarly solidified
tell me I've hardened
tell me I've solidified
thinking your accreting
when you're flowing
and darkened pixels
cavorting as words