Perfection as your goal,
shed upon it no worry
and take from it no hesitation.

Infinence is most easily reached
counting down.

A cloud
low to the ground
reaches 'round my neck
and down my shoulder;
no colder than your stare
and the fair white of
skin, sun amiss.

There, you look left
than back at me
and seen by we
a menagerie of
habits
breeding like rabbits
and feeding each other
of their own flesh.

Here, you look right
and night is upon us,
and the cold gives way
to starlight and fire.

Heat moves quickly in the dark.
Shed of its shining coat,
blinding cloak, of
how to us
it seems to be.

The clouds
low to the ground
ascend
and pretend
once fallen down
not to recognize
our faces
as a river.

All my testament to this,
that there is not a greater bliss
than that which comes of sweet release
as I step outside to ****.

What are we but fire patterns?
Light cast out from higher lanterns?
Let us allow the darkness,
and bless the burning.

I wish for not but to unwind,
to slip into a cyclic time,
to let the river at its flow,
to know there's nothing left to find.

To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine
after waking from a dream.
To find things in the morning
left exactly as they'd been.

The fruit still sweet,
the tea
hot.

None gone to rot
until forgot.

The fruit made ripe
by what is not.

The taste of tea?
or just a thought?

To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine
after waking from a dream.
To find things in the morning
left exactly as they'd been.
All is as it seems.

How can you not be thankful for your mother and father?
How can you not be grateful for the Earth beneath your feet?
The Sky above your spine?
With our whole lives we try to say thank you,
though sometimes it seems this endless succession
of gifts slips by too soon;
so we backtrack
and follow our steps left from where we were
in an attempt to find source,
the ultimate gift-giver,
selfless in every extent,
because we know that if we may say thank you
to That compassion
then all will be released;
all will be welcomed.

Here is the difficulty;
for in our usual acceptance of gifts
we return in kind,
but in a blessing so subtle
there is no hand to shake,
no body to embrace,
and so we light incense,
we make sacrifices and say,
“look what I don’t have,
look what is once again belonging to that great unspeakable something!”

Then the realization
that there truly is no difficulty.
That the great gift giver
is no idol to be worshipped,
but an example to be followed.

fresh morning dew drop,
suspended like a planet,
appeared over night,

Sternness,
you earn this.
Books,
you burn this,
only because
somewhere silence says
"Learn this!"

It says,
"the only thing important is definition."
and it will remain so until the flames reach us,
washing upwards like waves on a beach,
claiming us
and burning, popping,
bringing blackness from our toes
upwards still
into our eyes,
leaving lineless husks of us,
like sea shells waiting to be found
and filled
with definition.
To be made a cup.

"Fill your cup with love!
There is no drought.
We’ve reached the wellspring"
and you see no difference in
light and liquid.

"The inside of a heart,
is this dark?"


Escape into,
Get out of,
And be release.

Should I give more attention?
a tree than a stone?
because one is softer?
or has longer been 'lone?

We’re home.

Waking up to what was waiting
the whole time
you slept;
you slept in,
you slept in again.

Wide awake,
and it's been this way
all the while;
you smile,
you smile soft,
you smile again.

You share smiles
like there's just one.

Nothing left but breath to be done
when we play the game already won.

unraveled again
after clean beast encounters
freshly pressed towels

Not to be seeking,
and so not to be finding,
suffering in pain
~is~
Some sort of
passive *******
~is~
Middle ways walked,
horizons stalked,
endlessly into the distance.

Smoke Smiles,
No Resistance,

This
is
a visualization
exercise-- Take a
breath and close your eyes.

How many deaths  in the life
of a plant?
This is Lord Shiva;
This is His dance.

How much space
in the life of a form?
This is Kali,
She the unborn.

Together they sway,
forward in back;
Shiva the Fire,
Kali the Black.

As Lovers they ****,
put to Sleep, and Destroy,
With Grace and Love,
Compassion and Joy.

If I were Brahma
I'd have my lungs
on the outside of my skin,
and while everyone was breathing out
I'd be breathing in.

While everyone was breathing in
the reverse is also so,
but no one knows
which way the flow
(through trunk
through branch
through stem),
whether they are breathing I
or I am breathing them.

Under:Standing
is
Over:Sitting

Let be the fringes of past,
for with all your hands
you cannot reweave
the rug soon to be
under our feet.

Step lightly,
there are beings here
and they have been here all along,
through our noises and *******,
and they do not celebrate
nor recoil,
but we must give them the space
they do not ask for besides.

I am in love with wear,
and white made of color,
and the black made of light.
The where to which we are going.

No amount of sowing can plant the seed
that is to be
these that will flower,
and still there is power there
in the empty air,
and it is shared.

Care not for my death,
for it already has your love.
Care not for sadness,
it is already sated.

I've waited for a sign from God
and here i find that his gift
is not to be had
but still is to be given.

Are we so pulled by destiny?
As a child by a kite,
the movement of grass following.

Is there someone waiting
who knows our face from photographs,
candid, taken from our smiles and given to
someone waiting.
Familiar to them;
to us it's all the same.

Is it that makes the walk worth while?
Are we so drawn to our destinations?

or perhaps is there an eddy
like water made smoke
pulling us by the throat
without the choke
our breath a note
hummed from away
elsewherewestay

Give me today
and I will stay.

To wait at gates with no expectation of an opening

To be on the other side
and to ride
to be alive

You have no need

See before you a silver light.
Liquid motions shape its space,
its time is kept by the beat of hearts,
the pulse that starts beneath your feet:
the Earth, its smell the sound of ocean stones,
holds the throne on which
your ancestors sit, those that let your life.
Their eyes the silver light;
their blood, their hair
this night.
With your breath, with your sight,
the light is drawn into your roots
than shoots to the leaves
and weaves,
shaking
and breaking,
making doorways of sieves,
and though it fades
it never leaves.

It is we.

That which goes cannot know
the thing you need, like trees, to grow.
The mushroom knows and so the willow,
but that which goes,
which moves cannot.
The grooves they choose
what is to fill them,
and the roots they loose none but the lightest stones,
for they know their home is close
and that their is no need to reach,
for the stars from so far still teach
the thing you need, like trees, to grow.

Slow down,
and that which once was out of grasp
clasps itself to you.

Love like water is dripping in
steaming up
filling the cracks and freezing
pushing things apart
making space for us to
be together

I must be stealing these feelings from angels
a light this bright must be blinding
but at this angle
my eyes aren't hiding
and I can see you smiling

Love like fire is burning
and turning over
sheets of clover and a bed of moss
made flames and tamed to ashes
by eye lashes

Radiant Moister
Soaking Heat
Light in your Eyes
Smoke under your Feet

these are the things make you feel complete
that make you want to dance with me
so dance with me

If my words could kiss you,
I wouldn't stop talking.
If my silence could speak,
I wouldn't say a thing.

If my steps could love you,
I wouldn't stop walking.
If your fingers could listen,
they'd hear my skin sing.

Lava pouring into the sea!
which is you and which is me?
either or we are the steam.
this is how 1 and 1 make 3

Everywhere there are
people laughing, let them laugh!
let you laugh as well.

kiss me please.
kiss me hard.
let it leave
a mark, a scar.
let it burn and be a star.
kiss me please
and leave me charred.

I'm not so far away
as to miss it when you say
the way you feel.
i'll listen
and i'll pray
that it's real,
and steal a kiss
so that we may pay
only attention
to the tension between
our blue pools
atop mountains,
bringing them both
to the valley
to meet in the middle
and make up the sea.

kiss me.

Stuck everywhere are secrets you've heard before.

Sometimes the things i have to say
don't escape past the tips of my teeth
because the rigid parts of me
are afraid to tie knots
that can only be
undone
with a knife.

We;
the generation
that forgot the meaning of memorable,
so keen on trade
as a means to claim
or apply value,
that this,
only this,
is seldom enough.

I used to think that pain was the most motivational thing i could feel,
but as I was bound to be taught,
told in blessings by
teachers
i was trying to
train,
it's either a lesson in love
or a lesson in release.

We burn when we're
young
to cool down when we're
older,
but as a sum
does it freeze?
does it smolder?

Excuse me miss, I
couldn't help but to notice
your demon's peeking

Though the names of deities
shall echo through echelons eternal
the nature of their faces
will be never
on our
tongues.

And yet…

Even on the tip I forget.

Do not curse your demons,
they've more practice there than you,
and the most that it could do
is make you a demon too.

a cat is a creature of elegant feature
when leaping through leaves or wrapped round a heater
there's one that i've seen who lurks by the theater
she's shy with green eyes and i wish just to meet her

Rapture is the sense of envelopment
A feeling like looking up at the rain
The world as an envelope
Is as it does

come on in
the water's fine

I've got the shades down
and the panes up off the sill
so i can hear the rain sounds
without the wind chill,
yet still
i feel like granite,
and i can't stand it
to wait for my decay,
to wait for the day
that the stone to the water
gives way,

so I guess i'll sit.

When *** is a fight
the ideal outcome is
without survivors.

Demon keepers, we,
making cages of our bones to keep them,
faces into tomes to teach them
the way we weather.

The creatures in our trees,
not free for our weaves
of memory,
fall like leaves if you let them.
Easy like dying,
without even trying,
let them be there,
and when bare
are the trees
I see

I don't have demons,
the demons are me.

Knowledge is knowing
that you've always been seeking
Whereas wisdom is
realizing that seeking
is never-ending

I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending
I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
is just lending
I & I
for while
for to smile

Shhh
Shhhhh
I'm silent still
go back cat
to windowsill
that is that
the black will fill
my eyes
and i'll have no disguise
to hide behind
so lie will I
until
I cry
it OUT

and light!
oh light
so guiding
so graceful
a gift
is only as sweet
as the way
you embrace it

I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending

I once discovered that my brain is abyssal.
A mirror at most, a shadow or crystal.
As I unclenched, I found not a fist full.
Like dismissal, it's blissful.
Like some empty shape
much less than the wastes;
a smooth, silent stillness,
without mean, without make.

An empty fist is still a fist.
I am so
because there is
nothing
inside me.

let's make love
let's push and shove
let's leave our skin
out on the rug
burning
and turning over
back to back
to smack me sober

Let's make love
let's kiss and hug
and **** until
we get rid of
the liquid
that keeps us
from being released
and fitted
with riches
two gemstones apiece

let's make love
let's push and shove
let's leave our skin
out on the rug

did the owl overhead know it was an omen?

i've seen a man with feathers under his skin
he says that they are symbols
but I can't tell if he's truthful
and i think it's funny that
knowledge
is no different
than ink
or sound
inside boxes

I keep catching myself asking my friends if they
know what I mean
when i can't seem
to find words
i've never
even
seen

warning.

i may or may not know what it is
that i'm talking about,
and
if I do, it is uncertain whether or not
i understand.

Be also aware,
that you,
although gifted with hearing well enough,
may or may not know what it is
that i'm talking about,
and
when it comes to understanding,
one may only paint a picture
with the palate provided.

I don't age while i'm awake
but in my sleep my time is slipping
just the tracing of grooves
keeps the record for skipping
the ripping
of ripe red fruit from the branches
the juice sticking to
the teeth of
a woman
the romances!
the chances you take
are given freely
i love the moves you make
but you need only see me
to free me

so please
whatever you do
don't let me sleep

i want to take a picture of you
and in the picture, i want you to be naked
and there should be sweet smelling things
and though we won't smell them
we'll know because
we were there
we took the picture
and if we forget
the light smile on your lips
in the picture
will remind us

I've never seen something that wasn't reflection

To speak with movement,
as if our words were water.
All the hours you've spent
as the plotter;
the spotter of splits,
hiccups and missed bits
of info that slipped
out of sight
while we were
dancing.

Every spark flying from fires,
every dark moment conspired,  
by those discerning,
rising higher
in the burning
of books,
last looks,
and the things you took,
so as to
give them back again.

Drop your guns
but don't run.
Keep your feet
met with the deep
feelings that keep
you tethered
together.

Love like drums
is humming
inside empty buildings
with broken windows,
waiting.

It's just a thought,
but maybe this really is
as it seems.

Perhaps
the mountains
are truly mountains,
and the rivers
rivers.
A symphony of liquid,
notes called drops,
but you hear only one song.

It's possible
that light
is color,
because a broken thing
is still
itself.

All of the loose ends
might meet by chance
in a white room
when they find themselves
searching
for the beginning
again,
but
it's just
a thought.

Bring forth your
whole self.
I do not mean
pronounce your name,
show your form,
or announce the game you play,
but the being that is
without death;
the blank page that was before
the writings of mother and father
graced its white
humility.

Show me this.

It may seem a difficult task,
yet it is done without being asked,
no trifle nor trouble,
and once completed,
seems to have been done before
you even set about
to begin.

For the self is selfless
and gives its isness freely,
thus leaves no mark,
holds no home,
sits not stark,
does not roam,
from where/when/why/how it already is.

abound with fruits
are flowers;
are seeds.
black and warm,
with no need
for audio/visual,
hands-on learning techniques.

a fire is simply
burning,
yet is not itself when so.

Show me this.

Will we ever watch
the cool of a still surface,
or be forever

ecstatic
in the glory
of ripples?

The marks left by stars
last only as long as
the dust stays hot.

I will be the heat
and follow down the paths
walked by water,
by lightning!
Up from the roots
to shoot through the trunk
and out into the tips
of the tips
of the split points
where the leaves meet the sky;
and i'll wonder why..

Is the ocean really
so humble?
The rivers flow downhill
because they're trying to cool
the sun inside,
at the very bottom;
the ocean is only the atmosphere
of a silent surface.

I will dwell there now,
until the marks left by stars
are no longer white,
no longer blue,
no longer to be seen,
and i will follow the heat
into the dark.

at least tell me to
*******, it would be better
than this, your silence




(lies, all of it)

******* hands
keeping things
from being free
let them be

shut up
there's enough already
to listen for six days steady

maybe sleep
is more realistic than I think it is
maybe
i'm already there

wake up
there's no more in dreams
than what you've already seen

go forth