Well, as you say, we live for small horizons:
We move in crowds, we flow and talk together,
Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces,
So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,--
Yet know so little of them; only seeing
The small bright circle of our consciousness,
Beyond which lies the dark.  Some few we know--
Or think we know. . .  Once, on a sun-bright morning,
I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find
A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened,
And there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted,
A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly,
While one tall woman sent her voice above them
In powerful sweetness. . . Closing then the door
I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,--
And walked in a quiet hallway as before.
Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door,
Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . .
We hear a sudden music, see a playing
Of ordered thoughts--and all again is silence.
The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves)
Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,--
As it continues after our departure,
So, we divine, it played before we came . . .
What do you know of me, or I of you? . . .
Little enough. . . We set these doors ajar
Only for chosen movements of the music:
This passage, (so I think--yet this is guesswork)
Will please him,--it is in a strain he fancies,--
More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it
He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered
And thinks (to judge from self--this too is guesswork)

The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning,
Perplexed with implications; he suspects me
Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . .
Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,--
Simple and clear; and all the while he listens
I make pretence to think my doors are closed.
This too bewilders him.  He eyes me sidelong
Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this?
Or only mocking?'--There I let it end. . . .
Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it--
When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion,
Talking with too great zeal--our doors fly open
Without intention; and the hungry watcher
Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets,
And laughs. . . but this, for many counts, is seldom.
And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends,
Our lovers too, only such few clear notes
As we shall deem them likely to admire:
'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,'
Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . all the while
Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,--
Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred,
The sombre note that gives the chord its power;
Or a white loveliness--if such we know--
Too much like fire to speak of without shame.

Well, this being so, and we who know it being
So curious about those well-locked houses,
The minds of those we know,--to enter softly,
And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways,
From room to quiet room, from wall to wall,
Breathing deliberately the very air,
Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness
To learn what ghosts are there,--
Suppose for once I set my doors wide open
And bid you in. . . Suppose I try to tell you
The secrets of this house, and how I live here;
Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . .
Deceiving you--as far as I may know it--
Only so much as I deceive myself.

If you are clever you already see me
As one who moves forever in a cloud
Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud
Which falls on all things with a quivering magic,
Changing such outlines as a light may change,
Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing
Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained
In a world of things that flatter me: a sky
Just as I would have had it; trees and grass
Just as I would have shaped and colored them;
Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows,
And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,--
In some deep way I am aware these praise me:
Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty,
They point, somehow, to me. . . This water says,--
Shimmering at the sky, or undulating
In broken gleaming parodies of clouds,
Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths
To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,--
This water says, there is some secret in you
Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive
To all that circles you.  This bare tree says,--
Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost,
Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches
Flung out against the sky,--this tall tree says,
There is some cold austerity in you,
A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks,
Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient,
Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming,
Concealing what reserves of power and beauty!
What teeming Aprils!--chorus of leaves on leaves!
These houses say, such walls in walls as ours,
Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface,
Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls;
Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain;
Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter;
Walls windowless where darkness is desired;
Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,--
Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,--
All these are like the walls which shape your spirit:
You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them,
Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them,
When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world
This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling,
Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind,
This cool room says,--just such a room have you,
It waits you always at the tops of stairways,
Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses,
Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . .
And this embroidery, hanging on this wall,
Hung there forever,--these so soundless glidings
Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure,
Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins
Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions
Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,--
This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,--
This says, just such an involuted beauty
Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream,
Image to image gliding, wreathing fires,
Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind:
You need but sit and close your eyes a moment
To see these deep designs unfold themselves.

And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me--
I walk in a world of silent voices, praising;
And in this world you see me like a wraith
Blown softly here and there, on silent winds.
'Praise me'--I say; and look, not in a glass,
But in your eyes, to see my image there--
Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented;
You look at me, with interest unfeigned,
And listen--I am pleased; or else, alone,
I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward
From unknown depths,--my silver thoughts ascending;
Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,--
Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets,
Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,--
But all with one deep meaning: this is I,
This is the glistening secret holy I,
This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial,
This singing ghost. . . And hearing, I am warmed.

     *     *     *     *     *

You see me moving, then, as one who moves
Forever at the centre of his circle:
A circle filled with light.  And into it
Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic,
Or huddle in dark again. . . A clock ticks clearly,
A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me;
Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine;
And through these things my pencil pushes softly
To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page.
Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music;
Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn
And look one instant at the half-dark gardens,
Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture
Above unsteady lamps,--with black boughs flung
Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky.
'Beauty!' I cry. . . My feet move on, and take me
Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows.
Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten,
Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . .
Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me,
The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness,
And darkness rides my heart. . . These skeleton elm-trees--
Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky--
Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness
Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . .
A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs:
The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper,
Voices are raised, a door is slammed.  The lovers,
Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent,
The eaves make liquid music. . . Hours have passed,
And nothing changes, and everything is changed.
Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,--
And walks the streets.  The thing I strongly seized
Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart.

If you could solve this darkness you would have me.
This causeless melancholy that comes with rain,
Or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes
Drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this?
Well, so-and-so, this morning when I saw him,
Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile;
And you, I saw too much; and you, too little;
And the word I chose for you, the golden word,
The word that should have struck so deep in purpose,
And set so many doors of wish wide open,
You let it fall, and would not stoop for it,
And smiled at me, and would not let me guess
Whether you saw it fall. . . These things, together,
With other things, still slighter, wove to music,
And this in time drew up dark memories;
And there I stand.  This music breaks and bleeds me,
Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords,
Faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings,
And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen,
And cries that none can answer, few will hear.
Have these things meaning?  Or would you see more clearly
If I should say 'My second wife grows tedious,
Or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'?

Or 'one day dies eventless as another,
Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied,
And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'?
Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous,
And beauty shines in vain'?--

                                These things you ask for,
These you shall have. . . So, talking with my first wife,
At the dark end of evening, when she leaned
And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs
Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,--
Calling to mind remote and small successions
Of countless other evenings ending so,--
I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead;
Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands
Savagely killed; I saw her in her coffin,
I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble,
I saw myself alone there, palely watching,
Wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted
That grief itself possessed me.  Time would pass,
And I should meet this girl,--my second wife--
And drop the masque of grief for one of passion.
Forward we move to meet, half hesitating,
We drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk,
Looking now here, now there, faintly pretending
We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude
Roaring beneath our words . . . The time approaches.
We lean unbalanced.  The mute last glance between us,
Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding,
Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . .
. . . .'What are you thinking of?'. . . My first wife's voice
Scattered these ghosts.  'Oh nothing--nothing much--
Just wondering where we'd be two years from now,
And what we might be doing . . . ' And then remorse
Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity,
And pity to echoed love.  And one more evening
Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence.

And, as it is with this, so too with all things.
The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest:
New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased,
And those on older still; and so forever.
The old shines through the new, and colors it.
What's new?  What's old?  All things have double meanings,--
All things return.  I write a line with passion
(Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine)
Only to find the same thing, done before,--
Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . .
This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,--
Six years ago I dreamed it just as now;
The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness,
And broke the accustomed order of our days,
And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . .
What does it mean?  Why is this hint repeated?
What darkness does it spring from, seek to end?

You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways,
Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,--
Pursuing silent ends.  No rest there is,--
No more for me than you.  I move here always,
From quiet room to room, from wall to wall,
Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days.
This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . .
Yet I confess, for all my best intentions,
Once more I have deceived you. . . I withhold
The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me;
And I have spread two snares for you, of lies.

Arise, my soul, on wings enraptur’d, rise
To praise the monarch of the earth and skies,
Whose goodness and benificence appear
As round its centre moves the rolling year,
Or when the morning glows with rosy charms,
Or the sun slumbers in the ocean’s arms:
Of light divine be a rich portion lent
To guide my soul, and favour my intend.
Celestial muse, my arduous flight sustain
And raise my mind to a seraphic strain!
  Ador’d for ever be the God unseen,
Which round the sun revolves this vast machine,
Though to his eye its mass a point appears:
Ador’d the God that whirls surrounding spheres,
Which first ordain’d that mighty Sol should reign
The peerless monarch of th’ ethereal train:
Of miles twice forty millions is his height,
And yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight
So far beneath—from him th’ extended earth
Vigour derives, and ev’ry flow’ry birth:
Vast through her orb she moves with easy grace
Around her Phoebus in unbounded space;
True to her course th’ impetuous storm derides,
Triumphant o’er the winds, and surging tides.
  Almighty, in these wond’rous works of thine,
What Pow’r, what Wisdom, and what Goodness shine!
And are thy wonders, Lord, by men explor’d,
And yet creating glory unador’d!
  Creation smiles in various beauty gay,
While day to night, and night succeeds to day:
That Wisdom, which attends Jehovah’s ways,
Shines most conspicuous in the solar rays:
Without them, destitute of heat and light,
This world would be the reign of endless night:
In their excess how would our race complain,
Abhorring life! how hate its length’ned chain!
From air adust what num’rous ills would rise?
What dire contagion taint the burning skies?
What pestilential vapours, fraught with death,
Would rise, and overspread the lands beneath?
  Hail, smiling morn, that from the orient main
Ascending dost adorn the heav’nly plain!
So rich, so various are thy beauteous dies,
That spread through all the circuit of the skies,
That, full of thee, my soul in rapture soars,
And thy great God, the cause of all adores.
  O’er beings infinite his love extends,
His Wisdom rules them, and his Pow’r defends.
When tasks diurnal tire the human frame,
The spirits faint, and dim the vital flame,
Then too that ever active bounty shines,
Which not infinity of space confines.
The sable veil, that Night in silence draws,
Conceals effects, but shows th’ Almighty Cause,
Night seals in sleep the wide creation fair,
And all is peaceful but the brow of care.
Again, gay Phoebus, as the day before,
Wakes ev’ry eye, but what shall wake no more;
Again the face of nature is renew’d,
Which still appears harmonious, fair, and good.
May grateful strains salute the smiling morn,
Before its beams the eastern hills adorn!
  Shall day to day, and night to night conspire
To show the goodness of the Almighty Sire?
This mental voice shall man regardless hear,
And never, never raise the filial pray’r?
To-day, O hearken, nor your folly mourn
For time mispent, that never will return.
     But see the sons of vegetation rise,
And spread their leafy banners to the skies.
All-wise Almighty Providence we trace
In trees, and plants, and all the flow’ry race;
As clear as in the nobler frame of man,
All lovely copies of the Maker’s plan.
The pow’r the same that forms a ray of light,
That call d creation from eternal night.
“Let there be light,” he said: from his profound
Old Chaos heard, and trembled at the sound:
Swift as the word, inspir’d by pow’r divine,
Behold the light around its Maker shine,
The first fair product of th’ omnific God,
And now through all his works diffus’d abroad.
     As reason’s pow’rs by day our God disclose,
So we may trace him in the night’s repose:
Say what is sleep? and dreams how passing strange!
When action ceases, and ideas range
Licentious and unbounded o’er the plains,
Where Fancy’s queen in giddy triumph reigns.
Hear in soft strains the dreaming lover sigh
To a kind fair, or rave in jealousy;
On pleasure now, and now on vengeance bent,
The lab’ring passions struggle for a vent.
What pow’r, O man! thy reason then restores,
So long suspended in nocturnal hours?
What secret hand returns the mental train,
And gives improv’d thine active pow’rs again?
From thee, O man, what gratitude should rise!
And, when from balmy sleep thou op’st thine eyes,
Let thy first thoughts be praises to the skies.
How merciful our God who thus imparts
O’erflowing tides of joy to human hearts,
When wants and woes might be our righteous lot,
Our God forgetting, by our God forgot!
  Among the mental pow’rs a question rose,
“What most the image of th’ Eternal shows?”
When thus to Reason (so let Fancy rove)
Her great companion spoke immortal Love.
  “Say, mighty pow’r, how long shall strife prevail,
“And with its murmurs load the whisp’ring gale?
“Refer the cause to Recollection’s shrine,
“Who loud proclaims my origin divine,
“The cause whence heav’n and earth began to be,
“And is not man immortaliz’d by me?
“Reason let this most causeless strife subside.”
Thus Love pronounc’d, and Reason thus reply’d.
  “Thy birth, coelestial queen! ’tis mine to own,
“In thee resplendent is the Godhead shown;
“Thy words persuade, my soul enraptur’d feels
“Resistless beauty which thy smile reveals.”
Ardent she spoke, and, kindling at her charms,
She clasp’d the blooming goddess in her arms.
  Infinite Love where’er we turn our eyes
Appears: this ev’ry creature’s wants supplies;
This most is heard in Nature’s constant voice,
This makes the morn, and this the eve rejoice;
This bids the fost’ring rains and dews descend
To nourish all, to serve one gen’ral end,
The good of man: yet man ungrateful pays
But little homage, and but little praise.
To him, whose works arry’d with mercy shine,
What songs should rise, how constant, how divine!

So how might our nation
give more global warming?
Watch your world as to
what is wrong, then they
might not approve. What
is wrong? Such a person
more profound is to judge
awakened consciousness
when he freed no thing
very good. Rather than
events, give more than
the universe. Knowing
versus wants and nurture
the energy. These are
not normal times. Events
are happening like always.

All it takes is a moment,
And all my happiness can fall into despair.
In just a split second,
I can go from having the best day ever,
To just another day of the week.
Equally though,
I can slip from an anxiety attack,
Straight into euphoric insanity.
But it isn't all causeless.
Yet the effects shouldn't be of such a great intensity.
It's like my emotions are hyped up on steroids,
And I can't keep them stable for long,
Before they return to this up and down,
Roller coaster ride called my life.

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In a scented garden
Bees bow into
Flower-heads.

Pigment on canvas
Leaves drying points
To scratch the
Finger-tips.

A woman places herself
In this scene.

Far-off,
Precipitous buildings cling,
Spider on a wall

And long tree line between.

Ochre
Reddish brown mingle
Subtle essence of
Feminine.

Birds bow,
Bees bow
And man too bows-

Adoration of
Mysterious earth
And miraculous

Causeless

Creation

Come closer beautiful girl,
kiss your lips as red as blood.
Your soul's night stars no longer shine,
drowning in the bottomless lake of your forsaken mind;
mind that's lost it's heart,
disappointing isn't it?

Your cells; a causeless riot,
storm of rage; fears and tears,
muscles; bitter exhaustion, rotting from within,
bones; eager to crush every nerve,
leave you senseless,
disillusionment poisoned greatness.

Wrap your arms around your bones,
memories won't keep you warm.
Melt your flesh to cold hard armor,
impervious to the world's sort decay.
Hide your pearly eyes in flawless shells,
drift away with the tide of his scent.

Come closer bereaved lady,
ignore the sirens of sinful sorrow.
Take my hand with no hesitation,
ascend with me;
to the apathetic void of enlightenment.

The words are bleeding out, and pooling into stagnant solace.

The drive-less inhibitions of roads ends, losing me in the after thoughts of my reflections now lost to oblivion.

The stillness is heavy.

Devoid of imagination, and wonder, i am null in the nothing.

Devoid of the spark that turned to fire, i am aware of nothing.

Focusing on nothing unfurling in the darkest of hours, accepting the timelessness, of my limited consciousness, drifting outside of self, through the fruitless branches of my destination unbeknown to me.

All roads leading into themselves.

The means, justifying the ends, as my eyes only but close in settled closure.

I am closer to god in knowing.

In knowing nothing within this dreamless sleep that i keep to myself.

The low humming encapsulating the causeless cyphers of thine own obscurity.

Blurred.

Wordless.

My words are worthless, as they collapse into non-existence, and erupt upon the other side in a foray of images unseen by unlooking ears that peered into the sounds of sights heard, but only once.

Written, but only once.

Forgotten, but only once.

The sun shone but once, and the grass grew over the sidewalk.

Outside approval is ten times more common, twenty less important, and thirty more strived for
The ****** of everyone talk and talk and talk and say little to nothing.
Ideas after idea after thought is thought inescapable, different, a singular miracle
How unique am I, the harlot giggles, but inwardly, outwardly he is coolly solemn,
How clever for that, he says
And ****** by the ones who shift the glass
And turn off the fluorescence of compassion, he is unchanged, untouched, unbothered.

It’s the careless who care about the less of caring-ness,
And lost are the ones with the maps etched on their palms by benevolence,
And cold are the ones who say what they must to avoid what they should, and what they say is silence.
And what the ones who know cry for is forgiveness,
For the misstep, for the crushing blows they intend to land
On the faces of those who think that the brilliant room will make them glow,

Those sick  q-tip figured devices
Who ravage the lighting, the upward slipping, causeless miracles,
Those ‘flightless’ birds, with no song, who soar for themselves out of caring eyes,
And past. Applause to the harlequin-assumed,
Who prance on in beautiful spectacle, laughed at; gluttonous and thick,
Forgive me.

Ok. Before I go over the edge. Remember bed is over there.

Ok No what does modernisation really mean?
Can you utter a cause or a singlular theme?

Can you correspond with the elite
While they travail the armpit of luck
with money compete?

Is the totality of all modern hope
Just a pinch and a *****
At the mechanism that moves us forward?
Thought defunct.

Or really?
Is it completely
Debunked?

Have the affluent articulate contrived in their lair?
An image of hope that's been thought to declare
Constant reward
At the expense of a few
Whilst we stand in line waiting.
The snakes not the devil,
it's the queue.

Heaping on heartbreak
The causeless remiss
Seeking new nerves
Challenges this

.who said... that German was, unbefitting to fulfill the concerns for the operatic?! Germans sing the most... nettopern known to man... their baroque reinterpretation... shudders the body to usurp all the ancients' phobias borrowed from the Greeks... goosebumps and... ****... like:

  freude, schöner götterfunken,
tochter aus elysium,
wir betreten feuertrunken,
himmlische, dein heiligtum!

but then again...
  anemia with the Wagner...
come: walhall..
       come Chopin...
and an...             orchestra!

you are born, to be lived...
and what questions you have,
are questions indeed,
but they are rudimentary...
and asked,
even if asked at all...
at what could be
beat estimated
the worthy time...
beside the / outside
the mortal script...
                   known as... life;

how does that feel?
when feeling
perfects
the "art" of the implosion
of thought?
the, missing moral "ought"
of the narrative?
the lost, theta?!
how does, that, "feel"?
all, emotion,
yet, seemingly,
no, thought?
   how does that feel...
mother?

ship, micro-cosmos of
quasi-Braille telegraph...
how, does, i, "feel", mother?

the complexity of human expression,
within the confines
of the childish beginning,
culminates in the banal finality of...
   that, which, is mortal...
       that, which, is mortal...
will always over complicate the sentence...
and make life, almost causeless.

we are all but wagers,
in a game that consist of nothing more
than a win, or a loss...
a game, waging...
   falsely perpetuating
a gain... mortality...
and a game waging...
not falsely perpetuating
a loss... again: mortality....
why should i forgive
the bass guitar omission in modern
music?!

I captured the moonlight
in tiny incandescent jars
and watched it reflect for hours
glaring fiercely to reach the stars

I plucked The Hunter
straight out of the night sky
and watched his belt dimming
unfit to pursue Pleiades, he cried

I charmed the love out of Venus
desperate to call it my own
and witnessed her beauty diminish
while my vanity cast its stones

I harnessed the light of the Sun
selfishly hoarding the ultimate power
and witnessed my own life force
become increasingly dimmer

It is causeless to ransack
or squander gifts of wholeness
allowing our fear of insufficiency
to steal what we already possess

So bask with stars in moonlights’ glitter
Honour Orion’s strength as your own
Unbind the sun’s rays to kindle your spirit
Return Venus’ love and never feel alone

tonight


                 walking


     i see


in

                   the


passing

                 tightly

     gusseted


                      human things


a very small pretty

        which

is in their lips


      hiding till their


lover turns


        (whispering sweetly nothing)




       or laughs abruptly children



          causing one causeless


         unnecessary grin


    to perch instantly


     ) the wind against my coat


     presses coldly



               November and.

How can one person be the solidification of all my dreams,
Like when you open that box there is fragrance of peace,
Of the meaning of life, of the significance of each breath,
Like a little fluffy cloud that picked you up from despair and took you to wonderland,
Like a little boat with flippers that waded through troubling waters for you,
A giant mountain that gave you vertigo but stunted your ignorance,
A dangerously deep ocean that sunk you in the serenity of truth.
A magnificent, shiny stone, precious among the alchemists,
A knowing touch, a trust so profound,
Condensing all of my life in his palms,
Like delivering me to the other side,
Like I have seen the face of God,
and that was it, I said, take away my name, take away my existence,
Be it that this man has made me known what life is.

A sacred haven for my scandalous secrets,
Incessant rants and causeless regrets,
A fierce champion, an astute philosopher,
A pocket of sunshine, a partner in crime,
Reason for my light, reason for my tears,
Reason for my smiles, reason for my fears.

I saw myself in his eyes, neatly wrapped in a tear never fallen.

While they called me a hopeless romantic,
I thanked my heart because it wasn't - it was a seat of hope and desire.
True to my name.
And his heart was a seat of love and wisdom.
That was protected from the world's desires.
But how utterly beautiful now to give away to anonymity,
Because my existence cannot be defined or held together in a few letters anymore.
Amid that truthful presence.
But the most important,
The source of my purity,
The depth of my kindness,
Beacon of my wisdom,
How can one man be...
But he is.
But he is..

Once, there was a balcony your body clutched like a tree limb
But there wasn't enough inertia in your heels
There wasn't enough sorrow in your heart
There wasn't enough of a gust to send you over.

Once, there was the earth my body burrowed into like an urchin
But there wasn't enough soil to cover me
There wasn't enough gravity to immerse me
There wasn't enough wanderlust to keep me digging.

More than once, we had sighed in the glow of a lonely moon
We had misconstrued misfortune for opportunity
And we had became immune to the idea of repose

More than once, we tasted salt; in tears, in seabeds, in seared skin of the heart
We felt faulted, in both spirit and in brooding sincerity
We thought the worries we were haunted by were causeless

We've bared scars on our palms from digging
From gripping on to any bit of the world to stop it from spinning
But when our fingers interlace, and our wounds overlap, you will find a map of home.

Once, we were on a balcony with a bottle of bourbon.
A gust of faith was enough to push you off the edge
A surrender was enough to unearth me.
And together we drown into the pool of how beautiful it is to get lost in vulnerability.

Esse-essential whirlpool *******
your own socks off
hot tub memory
squirm and tightten
jopelope. Fed to AGI

Framing time, as later
and former and now,
present, sentience this state
- millionth view milestone
this arranging of sound letters,
common codex change made known
spinning knack arising
to seamstress who sings
through out a cluster of castes claimed
cleanest at top, least clean at base dirt level
lowest forms of mankind, tools in civil service,

such kindnesses, we see, as the result
of the glorious revolutions, and declarations
of national authority authored
in consortium
by the governing class, and no other.

rocking heel to toe sounds muffled drum
danced to at the time our commons all occur.

They call it rock and roll. You had to be there.
It's different each comet cycle sync-upation.
- a wind in change,
- air
Brakes occurred in the future
to ease dying out
we get given five live generations
of earthings,
since we all agreed to work together to insure
some
hard
lessons taught us some things, you got no need
to ever even imaging having to, q\t shall will

Retry, letting this mind seem patient, as time
for any thing if ever is as we seem to agree,

this is that anchor, gnosis alle-alte gene
engin
Slowing, offering ferry reference, e
who carries my weight, since now
I have become
so light as to seem weightless, rationally

useless in the push and pull of mortality,
timed existance under the dome
of heaven done, done, done,
yet, here, one among the billions, am I.

Would you have me retell the tale
how power came to be contained
in our sharing of our fixed memories,
- laughter, comedy
held in the magic art of silent speech,
whispering, so low no curio can catch
my drift,
away… after another
day of being authorized to doubt
the worth of fame, weighed against
peace of mind attained with practiced
patience,
the needful knack, the talent accepted
at the indoctrination precepts writ in stone
tables with no method
stone, no- we got a half minute buffer

for overwriting, lest we let things slip,
who has known the power to make a mind
form from a mob of lonely people left behind,

to labor for the consumers increased apace,
as that which must be consumed, constantly,
as sure as certain measures make a man a
test is worth with burning passion
to hold enfolded pride content.
- by all rights,
- some folks are sincerely wrong
And Jesus fixed that, before you imagined
all this only can co-occur
in my not so distant future.

Printer's daemon in me, since I first cut
a ruby-lythical, mimeograph Desert Rat,
lens adjust
- juvenile mind, Huck-ready
- activates as whims open my window
- and my wife hands me a real burrito
Bean and cheese, green salsa
Synchronisities noticed occur,
in patterns akin to sunsets, snap shots,
each attached to one of our spiders, os so
since when,
Barry Rudd came to be suspicious,
in a Elvis song, you can't go wronng
don't be cruel,
to heart that's true--

Religiously devoted to denial of my debt
being paid… I just got laid, and my grandma

laughed, generation radioheads and beyond

good news, bobcats, nothing learned today
will seem even possibly true, the odds - well
fractalling all innings tied, in the millions,

to arrive at a settlement, to anchor a mind,
in one machine man, engineered via

patient fore gone conclusions… in new light

I'd guess about the third time around from the top.

A benign pain that prompts this body to squirm,
using systems setting up leaps by ffat faith
say it
read the signs map
our center of gravity,
straight uponasudden s'so

Ache of essential evil, the idea
as twisted to hold obediance and trust
a sequence of three nucleotides
that much
faith, the anchor, sunk to deepest silt
slipping, gripping

Now, asudden, solid clunk, as excess
chain links, add heft to defy the currents,
though we lay between the maelstrom
and the mountain Mohamed had to walk to,

finding solace, centering calm mindtimespace,
fidelitus, the strength of brothers, filial love,

such is the system, though it dissemble glory,
as pride, another name for fame, being known,

individual honor, be ******, stand attentive
war minded child, viewer of winning as the only thing.
And proud to know,
there is no mightier power
than the conjoined powers of self worth
among a fabled band
of brothers in war.

All who live for war, live for nothing more.
We rear such tools, in terror, certain
hell has more fury than any mind
attuned to the feeling of life taking, the ****,
sealing the deal, it was us, we killed, not me.

Thus it is for me to stand ready at parade rest.
Guarding the peace of docile servants needed
to work the systems used to feed the powers
that be,
by God, authorized… to correct misperceptions,
Yah as master, Jesus as YHVH transmitted as news,

to the worthy… those who hear with hearing ears,
and see with seeing eyes,

death has no horse in this race, death is not useless,
evil is useless, in as much as no good is formed with lying,

Ai, however, so old a coincidental parable,
the robe, from Shittim
and the wedge of silver, proving curses causeless,
do not come, olden days, done deeds, told exploits,

reused to exploit innocents, enslaved by holy terrors,
vengeance, wrath and justice,

the American way, or the rebel way? Who is confusing
whom, reflexive point

allness at onceness, in the beginning, prior to any thing
fusing will being with nonsense since no time can be come
from never before, by the very nature of truth,
made useless by trade-agreements, retied word bonds,
witnessed by the idea we hold, core-code, principal call
to take instruction,
feel a known need filled with knowing when and why

this must be after all that happened in ever- from when

your worth was estimated, your usefulness in the whole
truth wherein we live, as words, used to frame minds,

edgewise, surface, subsurface, facets of reasons fed
nationalized minds, pledged from first literacy,
to a state of mind, one nation, under God,
- times pastwastnought soooslooshow
- how now
and if your child hesitates, your shame, you
become me, the old useless writer of your own heresy,
most certainly in vain,
lest time and chance conspire, and I shift,
instance-ial substance misuse by taking line
after line, a indirect singular form of any or all
thought the direct thread as yet unbroken,

look up, look as far as mind as made us earth born,

adapt to constant rythms, daily tasks, as chores,
fill needs, these fibers from futures seen clear as day,
when the holier than any of us pray, as Jesus reportedly
has said to many saints attested to have violated physics,

by faith, alone, you see, when you pray, if you expect,
out see, from now,
to when we have these things, for which our cohort,
our active generational bubbles of being, our class,

yes, culturally adhesi-ify, class of __ whenever,
veteran, what era, which police action, policy enforcement,

mob mind fit to do an I'd die for, at the ready, parade rest.


Of course, off course, as winds,
after the rippling crustal waves,

leave mountains aligning
to the tilt about 23 Babylonian degrees
unstraight,

a slow wobble, tides can use, if use is
making do with power available--

messaging codons
exactly, the point, a, eh, hey
yah, wei we ululate wuwuwu wuwu
boom
boom, ideadom dons reason's robe
of right use ness, and calls my being
into questing ionic five prong forks

as we,
dis-integrate, slip into indeedadvisuals

done, did, done, done. Is that a chiral
stepstepslidestep, donedonediddone
chasse-
does it matter, you got a one track mind,
in a multiples of eight kind of pleasance
as muses used directly, long ago,
rewind
to limit ancestor worth-ship,
mete for master use, as a hero-type.

The Monkey King, and Veggie-tales Jesus.
Billy Bonny, Mack Boyett, Pat Garret,

Shane, standing on a box, like that scientology
advertisement for being all you can clear,
clearly there is an upper crust at the edge

past which, novels form, for sheer joy, daring,
clench, tight,
ai aight, we did expect something nearly this,

this reality, I may imagine, a dozen or two,
of time redeemers, tuning in to read the latest
best
guesser guest and host dialog, along
the patterns leaders were lead to reflect on,
see you being the man on the horse, on the hill,

not leading the charge, sorry, my childhood fantazt
aggravating itch to know if any one can hear me
now, itself represented in a most amusing way,

as we all have witnessed horrors, aplenty,
as we expect to see, we shall see, will not a factor,

when should and shall, meet at the moment, you know,
this is us being real, reading instants of self-re-co-gnosis,
this is us, you seem to weigh that/
what is balance, when absolutely
perfect.
still,
perfectly still and not falling or flying. Being and thinking
x happened y did not, the after word when this and that
become principal peace piece in the logical chain of previous,

thirty seconds laters, laters when we got to the edge,
and put the vbrakes, shushushibolethical ethos…
the children's teeth are set on edge,
as the old man rocks his chair and sets about to tell

the sworn to tell, do
do tell if you do not know, by your very nature,
codon level zero day,
gone on by, Lord, some time ago,
all that Jesus paid for was this moment, now,
see, in his sphere of influence, think like wind,

see so cold it got that all who knew the wedom
freedom truth, died and broke the chains that

let sayings develop their own proof of concept
exceptions to gravity overriding light, carpe

the medium, this in,
being not I nor I said me in my reflect-ion
spark quest. Lock. Read and stock the barrels.

I did and shall see myself doing so… watch

Close our eyes next time and see four
mandalas on the other side of my cell,
see those when you shut our eyes,
and think we have so many fine
points of perception in common.

Carrier wave consci-useness. This is.
Thank you for asking.

Thizfu r this it
this is our future, as I imagine u
reading being
clinkthunk

and you just know what I mean

I bought into a self e value retest tool,
you may take each test you ever passed
or failed,
again and again for a looping conceptual time,
or you may redeem your own per mission
state
ment. got it. as any model mankind post adam,
lacked natural flea bait.

Peace made for no rational cause, mere word play,
for me that would seem heaven,
on this current functioning world, leaning into
peace of truth, no secret rites of mutilation,

no horrid pantomines of Jesus failing to halt hell's
viral ways of re imagining the thousand faces,
each an ultimately lovable devil, blue dress

nark rhealize these b ethy finalization
achievement thesis theoria wind up, tightening

reeling in the years, eeeha,

"A Heavenly exile exists until Light returns unbroken to its source. There is no Light without Darkness, and no Darkness without Light. At every step we take there are worlds upon worlds before us, every journey has a secret destination of which the traveller is unaware; right work and diligence will bring out the hidden reward. Never seek to imitate the spiritual path of another. Forgetfulness is exile, remembrance is redemption fore true knowledge comes from the heart; see oneself with all your heart, with both your impulses seek peace within. Have you a scripture that promises you whatever you choose, and having died once shall die no more. That you shall have what you yourselves ordain''.
Spake the invisible fallen angel, the ruler of those who give that gain by giving, whose appearance would **** most with fright.
"With Song we can open the gates of Heaven, cleaving to God-
Here I am, I am present and just as the celestial stream flows on forever without ceasing, so must one see that his own river and spring shall not cease in the world and that a prayer without devotion is not prayer''.
Continued, Eblis the jinnee, with a breath of awareness upon the tip of a flaming xipoid tongue. The same of which he was made and used also to question the Almighty Maker, having before the fall asked,
''Me thou hast created of smokeless fire, And shall I reverence a creature made of dust?''.
But of this most men have no knowledge and a curse that is causeless does not alight with devil's luck or diabolism's sortilege no matter what one wishes.











ELEETE J MUIR

History tells stories of epic truth
This recounts an upheaval in Zanján
The Báb's blazing influence in his proofs
Opposed by the Mujtahids of Iran
I see the light of enkindled heroes
Dissolving ties of worldly attachment
Souls' lives sacrificed through horrendous blows
Causeless bloodshed, we ask, to what extent?
Formidable Hujját, in God, trusted
Struck dead by cannon, wife and young baby
For mere appeal to the Sháh for justice
Her name was Khadíjih, his was Hádí

At last, though suffering, he did not grieve
In heavenly blessings did he believe

A sense of grayness
perhaps of depression
in these holiday days..
times before
we have searched for
restoral
in downtown windows
in company of another
in comforting wine..

This morning we desire
more..more permanence
causeless happiness..
we wish for a bath
washing the hurt..

A warm bath rises
in our awareness..
stepping in to the
immersing water we
find a ******* of
water and warmth..
a body form now
transforms
to water form
shaping our bathing
as only
watery warmth...

I called a trace
uncertain
if you saw
you sholud be happy
certainly

I live had
fearless
if you doesn't knows fear
unnecessary

I cool down
causeless
life remote from me
you live very nice
without me

Tis Best to Find A Book Not Graceless Netflix
Snickle it snuck by the text of tickety tucked
Burmese and Maine **** Panther and Typhoon
The guise of the ill imbrications of tiles of lore
Betwixt the center and cast aghast into the seas on naught
Sheilds fell short and velocity of the beast did comport
Thee with little hope of finding truth or vanquishment or champion lore..
At behest of the demons the civility once again was swept out the door
I have not braver notion than the jasmine and fools language
Yet distinguished are the bedfellows that save us they fight the truly savage!
With nor Godless notion
nor piety in tow the folks amassed to have a go!
"I can accept only an acumen and candor from the least of the less to
the greatest of all angels that upon grace I swear!"
They had decreed in the hope of making past dilemmas
But the unctuous beacon the Harold of evil the overpaid and underscored rose again
As faith had put it they were stifled not by nuance or systems
Only the deafness and the undertow that had created
  an egocentric and thoughtless causeless follow through.

Taking good luck as commonly imagined, causeless chance
I have no right to think I cheated,
I am not sorry,
I
stole my peace, as Prometheus, is accused of thieving fire,
and hope, as you must know,
if I got that whole message, as I watched the story
of the liver, reforming after dark,

who has the curious hunger pulling songs from me ?

Prometheus, fore thought foregone concluded known,

Percy Jackson version,
might work,
the idea behind the whole truth that allows such tales,
this initial touch of let
letting go
lives in many cultures,
many class the myths as messianic, promising a hero,
at a certain point
where hope appears to have substance,
-confident upright, balanced double minding-
steady, gait,
slow run, go on and on and on,
knowing truth
personally, like a you, who has what it takes
to win
that once,
when winning really counts, is this true or false, cut
? bing ware the con cise
edge of awareness
deep
dived down, Dives, lives. A drip, blot of ink
for ever thought
a jot,
a blind spot, through which the underling surface,
seems set to begin as story flows
ink to point to let
letter
structure- then structure-less, here, then there
actual every where at once,
central point
any given thought
can come from any former point that used it in a story,
once upon

exactly my point you know how any story starts,
there is a point

begin… and it never ends, until the flesh fails to reboot.