Night wind scales,
Frosty Palace,
Must I ****,
For law,
For order.

Ignorances innate wove curtain of veils
Cut usunder heretofore obscuring
Bodhicittas valedictory wintry gloom torn
Of enlightenments will factioning the
Silenced mammonish city kingdom truced
As the wings of Azrael clinch
Earthly thistles; monolithic raiments
Deposed Hull, Hell and Halifax parcae
The willowing of light unfettering Fenrirs
Durance, howling aconite psalms suspiring
Suffrage relict paving with mewed stars
Redemptions tithed talents bequeathed
Of Heavens sinister prayer burning
Acinta dusts thine ashes threading
The wilful sword of Gods destruction.


ELEETE J MUIR.

lark, perched and persistent,
upon that willow,
and billowing, that screeching wind around you;
and willowing, those branches stretched out to guide you;
and singing, that song reaching out to hold you;
and ages dying, fading away beneath those yellowed branches—
now you wait for the advent of spring, an eternal lament
of slowed, persistent flowing, of pointed, ageless growing—
of wallowing in the hollows
and promising in the branches,
and leaving in the sunset,
and learning in the shade:
she flew away, I think, to the edges of the sea.

absence of fear and hunger,
replaced by the need for time and blundered veins
create this enigma, destroyed by thinking it over
it's a bomb, vulnerable to detailed thought
how to escape
is simple-
love the pieces it has
and forget the ones it lacks

-cj

I can see
how men fall irrevocably in love
with women
with so much soul in their bones
that it must ripple, and fill out living flesh
women who possess thoughts
that could bring down the sky
women with platinum eyes and satin skin;
willowing waifs and dewy dreams.

But how they fall even a stones throw
for women with
sallowed cheeks and deserted eyes
who paint themselves out of freckles and blush
women with
minds that contemplate only as much as the mirror reflects
and mouths that open to unwittingly break a misleading silence
women with
not an ounce of longing or lust
or love
in their veins, just a crimson thud
without a beat.

A quasi fog hole is born
An urge to be somewhere
Anywhere but these islands of bloodstreams
Far maybe in Thailand

What awaits next is a scaber of thresholds
It's an unknown world if you fall and land here
Shimmering camels going about their own biz
Wearing demon suits with demon ties
Auxiliaries conversing in Bonomos
Common hats all practicing, choreographing all catacombs thundering novels that are occurring as they scream, pictures willowing one by one, second by second all occurring simultaneously
...and say again
Awaiting ...
Not occurring at all...
Never had occurred at all

there’s a boy I love,
the boy doesn’t speak,
the boy is pale, a body full of bones.

his ****, limp
his eyes, weeping
his form, skeletal and twined.

i want to dissolve him into body wash,
clean my body with his.

there’s a boy,
a touch of 25 to his grace.
the boy kisses like he’s carving gold into cement.

he makes art out of willowing branches of thighs,
out of dove-necked wrists,
out of a sloped, vining neck.

there’s a boy,
mute; but as loud as roaring packs of waves.

there’s a boy i love,

even when i swore love was what I was most afraid of.

Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves in labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine

And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the where's or why's
But something stirs and something tries
And starts to climb towards the light

Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand the best I can
And no one calls us to move on
And no one forces down our eyes
No one speaks
And no one tries
No one flies around the sun

Cloudless every day you fall upon my waking eyes
Inviting and inciting me to rise
And through the window in the wall
Come streaming in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning

And no one sings me lullabies
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky

Sunday's somewhere in the teal dawn
wandering on a lukewarm breeze.
Monday pens weary travelogues
with fugal prose of frozen seas.

Tuesday holds a gilded halo
of sunlit cirrus atop the knoll.
Wednesday gathers ornate words
and begets infinity upon a scroll.

Pale gleams flutter
upon a lap of willowing streams
and in a dream, the sun melts
as the moon sets at the end of my bed.

Island marooned, mana consumed,
and with ancient runes, a song is stitched
as love is woven in the white of wool threads.

Thursday hums a quiet tune
and lilts over the azure morn.
Friday trods the afternoon
through blossom and thorn.

Saturday nestles in cool dusk;
a shroud of purple-painted skies.
We'll blot a scarlet streak of stars
and crown the night with your hazel eyes.

The door up the stairs,
It eludes my conscience,
I'm ignorant of what is to wipe,
Across my thoughts.

Come here, they say,
Sit down, they say,
We have news, they say,
Stage 3 ovarian, they say.

How could it happen, I ask?
That so innocent a person,
With so much life and vigor,
Can fall into such a void of hopelessness?

She arrives in the door,
70 years young,
Sullen and tenuous,
Her tears fall caustically ,
Down her face.

The older man, hit so hard
Falls short in his strength;
His arms fall numb,
To the pain of occurring loss,
His tears fall caustically,
Down his face.

Hugs are thrown left and right,
As tears shed violently,
The shock kicks in,
Where will she be in the future?

I suddenly think, as quickly as i see,
Their willowing visages,
How long will she last?
And my mind drifts into the unknown.

I see her face covered in sun,
Illuminated by the vigor of health,
Her breaths cease to exist,
Yet she is more alive than ever.

She turns to me and says,
Isn't this wonderful?

My mind snaps back to reality,
The cold house chills my body,
The tears still feel caustic,
And the pain still feels unbearable.

But in all of this misery,
There is one thing,
We can look forward to.

The thing that we can't predict,
The place we can't imagine,
The experience we can't escape,

The Future.

Ten years to master a spear,
A hundred to master the sword,
But an eternality to master the brush.

A spear, I used, to hold a fortress,
A sword unsheathed, the heavens fears,
But a brush in hand, ten thousand enlightened.

Ah, is not the spear a weapon of soldiers,
The sword, the hero's friend,
At last, the brush is the sage's kin.

Why shed blood of a thousand men,
Why not teach immortals and men.

wandering in the west wonderland of the east
coast of  psychedelia along the northern coast
of a southern island
I came to  the perception
of me as a scorpion
tail held high prancing venomously
striking the hand  that fed me
along the willowing trails of honey nectar
the rainbow sailing sailboats in sun
colors glistening
the breathing cloud skies of blue gold
right next to a godlike creature sat I
tail up telling tales
with poison assed consequences,
making promises like a politician
was a bad trip then , until,
I saw  bodhisattva sipping brandy and being just him
along side a unicorn on a hill
outside Hollywood
I took his hand
his discipline his calm
his realm now mine. He gratefully shared.
Now this was my kind of dude.
I waited around and he melted away
and ten vestile virgins appeared in his wake.
Each more beautiful than I can say.
And we ate strawberries and flew in the sky wingless
partied on shortcake and cream and I was happy once.
A beautiful dream a memorable trip.
It opened my eyes. My senses cleansed.
I  try to live just like that.
Imaging Nirvana again, every day

Jagged bottles, freshly broken, line the
cobbled pathway leading to the house.
An open window and the heady smell of warm beer
implicate the under-employed and over-stimulated
inhabitants of something.
A frazzled flag, ruined by the wind and disinterest
drizzles limply in the breeze. Broken lines and
pointless stars point to broken lives and
pointless wars that spit on the lithe and measured
stiches of an avant guarde Betsy Ross.
Ancient wooden placards, blue and white and peeling,
shoot up through the hoarfrost of the unkempt yard.
Promising something, though not articulated, they
describe a geometric shape, strangely triangular,
between signs and flag and glass.
A strong confident voice, "Yes we can," wafts
through the open window, and floats above the dismal house.
Then a curse word and a shotgun blast and the
willowing smoke from a TV no longer in need of its
power switch punctuate the scene.

Its about this time of the year when the fog  feels melancholy. Sticky in the way it hugs around your fingers, and sometimes your toes. When the grey gives way to blue, and theres a breeze right aroudn midday before the sun comes in, warming your shoulders and brightening his hair.

Its right about this time of year when change sits regally on every windowsill and rooftop, reminding you that it never left, you were just fooled by the frigid frost of february covering its tracks.

Look over your shoulder, she's not there anymore. The way you left her, at the door. Its open, swinging.

And its this time of year when its spring again. And the regality of change crowns the blossoms on each branch, willowing by your doorstep. Sitting on the stoop smoking a cigarette you see the smoke, blowing in little curves to your neighbor Mani's door.

How long you'll be here, you don't know. Mani doesn't either. You both came in from the countryside, a while back expecting to find a gig singing or acting. Lately, you've both been doing that, but what you earn money for is pouring whisky and ***** and gin for people who's lives are made or lost or forgotten by whatever you give them. Sometimes it feels like you control some secret potion, like you have an elixir to share at your dispense. a secret, just like the patch of grass that lingers growing and re-growing under the february frost.

She left pretty quick- you couldn't catch her, there was no way. See you have to know that that kind of thing is coming, or get ******* lucky. But you lost her you really did. With her hair in the wind, and her eyes, so clear you could see the wind blow through them, and the sun shining rays, she used to sit on the stoop. Now that's what you've got. A pretty picture in your mind- one that's all too connected. You remember the smell the touch the heartbeat. Its all there, and it will be. It'll stay you know. She was designed for it- to break into your little shell and leave her mark, make room for herself in your life just in case the spring wasn't coming back, in case change wasn't going to slip through a hole in your pocket and fall down, down into the new york city subway to be carried and picked up and taken on odyssey upon odyssey.

You would have never known. And so, now change sits regally where she did, mocking you for having turned you into a beggar, a gypsy, a fool for little pieces of silver and gold. You begged for change, and I warned be careful what you wish for.

Halfway through the year time crept
Days seemed to flash like thunder
each vanishing by to its paradise
Sometimes I wonder about the days
If they will reappear above the mirage
far beyond the ever breathing skies
above the unreachable starry skies
above what is unfathomable and unattainable
and if these days sat on a mountain?
would it ever sink or be weighed down?
submerging below the strata and volcanic tension

aren’t we all stuck in a driven world
where souls are trying, prying, crying
each trying to find a place, some freedom
a resolution above all the substitutions

Yet as she sat at the fountains of love
all she could find was second class crowns
rusted copper coins sunk at the bottom
and all their wishes echoed eons ago
articulated with tainted rosy promises
pardoned within a series of mysteries
as if happenstance as delicacy was outpoured
and as she sailed, willowing voices unfolded
and all she could visualise was the future ahead

Is it the silence of all remains of civilization,
willowing their thoughts on the threshold-
of humanity, crying to be born out of-
the crest of creation?

Or is it the soft penetrating sounds of-
birds chirping, singing in their-
harmonious tone, nesting on the-
foundation of what is love?

For if you cannot find peace within-
yourself, there is no reason to look-
somewhere else. For to look is like-
a withering flower, crying to be born-
out of the pedestals of society.

At the LAUNDROMAT / the sign, all in Caps.
Time : Midnight at half past

It’s like a home for my home-girl
And that Chicano Youngblood
Cutie with his family duties /
in the lateness of tonight, doing laundry:
Folding his brothers’ Johns
His Tia’s Lacey skimpy's
Crumpled like tiny ****** / scrunchies.
He’s Methodical, his eyes don’t waver
From his work,
Tries to not notice mines

I feel like I’m in a rap video,
My chick being clocked by dark eyed,
She does not notice,
& while at tumble dry
I can’t quit ogling at ****
Hanes-shirt white,
Mr. homegrown boy / guy.
Headphone Speakers have his ears
Texting back at spam / females,
Smartphone shiny thick ‘uns
While I watch salivarily, licking lips
**** so Fine!
My muffled salutations—hot ****!
He’s Adjusting himself front faced
my window to
Things that makes you go hmmm...
I feel I should somehow
Cater to these wiles inside
Aquiver / wrought / A high
Willowing / body admonishing
the vibrations of deep bass
like hard hip-hop rap beats from
Impalas riding way low,
Tinted windows vs. blind faith
Reality vs. perceptions from our
Fantasy / briefly close shuddering eyes
Awake not a dream spared.
(Hello there!)
Midnight at the Laudromat,
This is some reality at that!
Home grown boys
And drool drops / swimming in thought
From the corner of mouths
Words are *****
Past the late of moonless nights
In the neighborhood of Twain and
Corona beers (hold the virus)
We’re all marked by the streets
And the big empty inside us...
The hunger pangs,
Homeless outside chitchat on black
Skittering past
City Wildlife
At Midnight at the Laundromat.
Yes ****** &
       Too **** at That
(In all caps.)

Boots and braces
Don't make you racist
A blonde blue-eyed guild is a ****
Saying for old reggae for lazy youth
Stuck to a peaceful enterprise for the Rastafarian
Compete for the vibe
Subliminal suicide
Is the reggae jive part of the working class
Dress according to your passage of Rasta
Psalms for a whole way of life
Without racism for life ostensibly built on New York streets
A blue-eyed outlook on the train of thought in a prejudiced world
Yeats read by the minute in 70s England by the Poets Corner
Hyde Park willowing in the Summer of Peter Gabriel
The genesis of a change had been sold to us by the pound
An exchange with weighing guilt, ridden of luck
That men say the facts knowing

The guilt will stay with criminals forever
In the promised land, tried by the law of human nature

Such disturbing themes
invading my dreams.
So callous it seems,
As I wake up in screams.

Future wild, not benign
It’s my will, it’s my time.
So don’t call it a crime
When I walk the thin line.

Nothing more here,
But panic and fear,
As I feel the spear,
stare at me in the mirror.

Not joyful, not proud,
Not excessive or loud.
Just a willowing shroud,
That’s out lost in a crowd.

Notion 'A'
Adding the brass of the day
Altogether a wish we found in a malaise
A court of excelling need, with a moment to say

Notion 'B'
Begun in a willowing voice, hard to see
Subtle bolting skies, with a tooth to turn and seem
Beguiling presence is a world's forte, meant any and all anarchy

Notion 'C'
Contrary to devil's of chaste, and a demonstration of haste
Causes of virtue outrun a valor's sight, like embarrassed keep
Cold silence in place of heard fact's, of poise and pleasance too fast

Notion 'Subsequence'
Surreal, the voice of constancy at the beauty of dependency
Safety in proverbial numbers, versus the common amends
Sakes alive and rekindled, will surmised gaiety show true, the seen?

The skeins — The Dreams
The ray that Time forgets to see
For In-between
You is me
Lies & the spirit, the suffering
In this space
Every surface of our fate
(Break free)
An Ocean of brilliance
My ethereal plane
In your infinite
Your Skies of Deliverance
This moment I repose
Flesh-heavy Life kept
Unkempt—Cold
Recalling the Past
Behold!
A recluse in a box
With jaundiced Light...

FishSparrow swims in the Now
Deeper Skies
Ephemeral Scion
Beyond
All worlds One Eye.

……

Monuments
Gargantuan champions of yore
Over landscapes crowded
With worshippers
Weaponry

Wars
Having Words
Belief
A powerful spark
We fireflies
In the veil of wide night’s dark.

My spirit still / expectant
For more than flickering wisps
Willowing Whispers
Of miraculous man kind
Echoes now lifeless shadows before;

Mortal theories’s grandiose
Yet only infants afloat upon
The profound
Betweens
Go to the river
Oh the wailing for Manna

Oh Mother!
The pain of our own making

Quicksand
The minutes breaking, preying
Predilections swaying
****** in statues

The iron victors
Wield long swords
Riding marble chariots
Colossal fires upon masculine faces
Long gone
The war-cry
Carved
Over landscapes
Crowded with
Underworld
destined
To lay among stone
Hearts with
Shrunken heads

The fade of unremembered
Ghosts.
They leave seeds our fearful
Imagination
Grows

Wilderness in this hollow
Of twilight eyes
Also die

We beget hell without
Light
To tell the tale
Without brilliant love
Starlight fails when hells
All hail

Awe and Om!
Oh Mother!
Make way, the few
Futures shalom
(The Neigh will come alone
Someday soon)