the desire to create is only sated by late nights writing
finding keys on the other side of locked doors
a way found around
*** & discrepancies
laying naked on the bedroom floor
falling apart up until the point you're put together

inspiration comes late
after the starting indicated on the invitation
after the guests have come and gone
lengthening faces taking the wine and smiles with them
after you fall to the ground to stare at the undersides of things
and take a shower to wash the thoughts off your skin
inspiration comes
stumbling in
like a drunk lover long forgotten
their features still still unsure
blurred even in person

you both know that you knew what to say a moment before but silence swallows the knowing and you're left open under the sky crying and making each moment as it is upon you

the sun still rises
over every darkness

be not startled when it looks other than you remember it to be

an internalization of pattern,
a process possessed
and mirrored.

A frequency,
the same sound as is found in
a dying fire
and leaf-fall
over a patronized footpath,

a hum,
and a crackling.

A seemingly random happening
guided by a template of ritual elimination.
Narrowing down the stream of all things
to fit inside
a mind.

This is who I am.

A recurring dream
and the feeling of waking from it
to find yourself
where you were
always.

.covered.

Only so many masks
to fit a face.
In so much paint,
only so much color,


and in all the ways you can put it to a page,

this is who I am

In my meticulous counting of
escape routes
am I undoubtedly bound.

It's ridiculous this shouting
and fake mouth
can spout such powerful sounds.

If we are made round
by this playground ride,
if we remain found
(pressure applied on every side)
I might drown or die
or more likely hide away,
fly, explore, and stay,
get gone
get lost
and pray
till dawn and day
when frost and spray
on the lawn displayed make waves in grey,
break the dew-sparks and make way for
sunrise hues
(no dark, light blues)
for you
to run right through.
All bright, brand new.
Right on cue, as if you knew.

You know,
I've heard that birds go
over the rainbow,

I can too.

You know?
You knew.
It's not just one shot you got,
not one flow to go with,

you can choose.

We're no longer circular,
shining like a herkimer,
opening my heart
and finding what it's worth to her.

Undefined by size,
by shape, by time.
I am more than mind,
motion and lines.
I am the ocean and brine,
the fruit and the rind.
I leave nothing behind.

I see but I have no eyes,
I grasp but my hands are tied,
and still I try
because that's the name of the game,
whether it's love
or money
or fame,
we're not above change,
we're not beside staying the same.

the smoke
following
as you fall through it

before you feel
the breeze, seeing it in a
medium of leaves

candlelight
through red wine
flickering

my grandfather's poem
read for the second time

white carpet
red under an empty glass

dead
in the back of my car
spring wasp

the poem
is not in my mouth
not in your ear

my spit
spherical
before it hits the ground

Myriad gifts!
Each moment,
a token of eternity.

We cannot remember the beginning.
Waking up in the summer months,
the sun already risen,
casting off our sheets and dreams
to continue the journey.

Was there an initial gift,
that which ignited the reciprocal cycle?
I do not believe it is so.

We were once afraid
that we were walking in circles.
Afraid of the play repeating,
the actors cast in stone,
alone but for their masks.
I do not believe it is so.

How else then would we have been met?
Our circle paths must be stretched and concentric.
Spirals conspired, their meetings destined,
imminent.

Ripe with water,
subtle dynamics,
electric and hungry,
falling from the sky
to make the ocean underneath.
As rivers, we weave
and meet in the sea.

Myriad gifts!
Each moment,
a token of eternity.

This shell spells out our odyssey.
Archaic language no tongue has held
carved by thick darkness;
let us learn to speak these words together.

Crystalline creature!
Risen in the waves, in the sun
brilliant and burning, in the light
before us now, your own sojourn
shown in form and color.

May we be shown truth through your story
and in your shape know beauty.
May we be the continuation of the way
and in endless change know peace.
May we bless these trails by our passage
and in our heart of hearts know compassion.

Myriad gifts!
Each moment,
a token of eternity.

We cannot remember the end.
Caught by the warm recollection
of an oak grove
in the late day glow,
we drift into unity.

how willingly we wish to fill the emptiness

how impulsively we seek to shape and mask
the space pervading

...

There is
to my being an aspect,
which in its witness
eats but does not cook,
reads but owns no books,
sees but does not look.

...

there is no coming and going in the void

Midday
on a streetlight unlit
a Hawk

the Moon
rings
when the clouds roll over


the smell of broken Earth
the Color on my hands

the sharp and savory
acid scent of Juniper
sprung green from Granite

a pine cone
in the soft, blue alkaline
sweet alpine Water

termite hieroglyphs
drift wood Houses in braille
rough under fingers

sun bleached tree stump
on lake shore stones
one root in the water

Spring sun
snow patches
in tree shade

the lichen bright lime
making patient animals
of old growth Cedars

Fall
from leaf to leaf
the paths of ants

bent over
staring at the Earth
where is this poem?

My body is a temple,
though abode to no monk.

a man's need for space
is ironic given the
symbol of a
woman

Be not my altarpiece.

You are no ritual implement
with which I commit
religion.

You are given
(of and by yourself)
to
(no cherub or elf but)
a being
(human)
this feeling
(this numen)

Free as any altarpiece
found alone on seascape vistas
far away from
the clamor of symbols

Be not my leader nor acolyte,
we've too many paces to walk tonight,
for you not to be by my side.

I'll settle for no projection.
No, I'll settle not at all;
for the fall is slow,
and I'm caught like
so many motes,
so much dust
suspended in your transparency
Dancing.

Be not my altarpiece.

You breathe in your sleep
too sweetly
to be anything other than
this moment
(as it repeats me)

december sunday
Sun and the sublimation
of morning meadows

No spoken word, no token bird,
no crane, no dove, nor sparrow,
can soothe the fire, smooth my smile
or remove this Eros arrow.

To say to you our union's hue
is all I wish to do,
so let's lie down
our fate unfound
and let the colors choose.

There's green beneath
these waves of sleep;
the sheets we speak between
keep words of gold
within their folds
no lip nor tongue nor cheek can hold.

The dreams that bring the warmth of oneness
keep the cold at bay
and makes of us a mote of dust
on sunlight swept away.

As we trade our blues and greys
for the white of water, red of rocks,
the pink of sparks they spray
stop like stars in space and stay.

In this way love is made.

The release of pressure
from the compression of air.
Crack the can,
((hisssssss))
move my hair
in front of my eyes,
kiss the lip and tip
back.

My God!
I despise
soda..

~~~I love the way you make me move~~~
~~the secrets your space keeps.~~
~I love the way you let me rest,~
the way you make me speak.
\/
.
/\
I love the liquid listing you,
~the way you tend my fire.~
~~I love the way you light the dark~~
~~~and send the sun to sleep when tired~~~