...At this evening nigh-tide, reptilian
brain bites back instinctively.
I am forgiven in all Houses...all postulations
bloat these blue veins.
Daguerreotype pictures cake their ashen
backdrop, that assures the comely smile
of cosmic forbearance.
As if these lips would dematerialize in search
of utterance.
Not for the entrained speakeasy of spotlit
here and now...but the energetic pulse tugged
at both ends of tongue.
The final straw struck back, to ingratiate the
greatest of pilgrimages.

Isn't it strange
how seasons
show us we
have outer
responses
to inner ones.
The more bare
the landscape
becomes... the
more we layer.
The more lush
the landscape
becomes, the
more we shed
layers.
It's as if we live
in reverse...just
to mend the
schism of mind
and body.

Essence is the
single grain of
salt and sand
married under
a wave.

Beheaded at the
bottom of the Ocean...
bobbing head.
Regeneration of eyes...
seeing through every
drop...the sun's unction.

A rose screamed ******
******...began smoking
black upon the white ceiling.
The billowy scrawl of a
dispassionate unfoldment...
as its ****** vase soaked
the thorns of last defense.
Freed up in aromatic spasms,
by emotions that felt for
themselves till flat.
There, darkly blessed by
a ****** of shadow and
a dint of light...The Beloved
secured a centerpiece.

Something keeps
upending Resonance...
The Perfect Bride,
tossing Her bouquet
at Her Perfect Bridesmaids.

an entire

snowstorm's

the ashes of

a self-combusted

angel.

a single pride-swell

too close to

Luciferian aspiration.

A pearl
is the world's
ghost...refusing
to come out of
it's shell.

Melting this
chest as a burning
polaroid...
those serpents
that hiss, those
doves downed
white.

The fire is long, the flame is short...
thankfully, love at its loveliest is not
proportionate.
The doings of this earth start to speak
freely the more you sit with them...
doings whose burdened air ignites.
The fire is long,
the flame is short.

You pick a
place and
hide, thinking
the world
seeks you.
The inside
cannot hide
from the outside.
The outside
cannot seek the
inside...the game
is wide open.

as Rumi after

meeting Shams--

plunged in

The Ocean.

proffered pearls...

whirling dervish.

exalted and exalting~

This colorful
residency
will cave in
despite me...
negative space
will be my
critique.

An avalanche on the sun...
white light face-first...
Union enters a beginning
and end, Union exits a
beginning and end.
Radiance passing out
radiantly...coming to
radiantly, at every mortal
moment.

Sine wave knuckles working the

cab interior of an elevator, thunderous

blows  story-ing up, down.

Cramming all those voices in a voice box,

a moral imperative to release them.

Exorcising a city riding a dungeonesque

shaft, all those broken by bread, crawl

my lungs as if trying to pry open a chasm.

No feet to my name, animal space for an angel's

consideration.

Thoughts like bypassed gut-checks of rats

crossing a third rail, vivid as Buddhist visualization...

modicum of composure, the elevator doors open.

People press in, as if finalizing the final frontier.

Dandelion-headed
angels, whose minds
are the equipose
of dawn-dusk.
Eyes more open
than open, eyes
more closed than
closed.

Being fitted by memorable

silences...disrobed by

memorable silences... my Tailor

and I, meet eyes in the mirror.

Now come the golden
leaves, widely blessed by the
Narrow Way...ground enough,
sky enough...for their
delicate touch.

As December gives
herself to
the advancing circle...
may the shape
of her final thought
be centered in peace...
on this our Mother Earth.

Window beaded, raindrops gnashing silvery
white, at core--grey sky in each, each to each
a composite of it.
Room....an abstract memory scheme, dull blocks of
color hanging in there.
Afternoon in the middle of itself, January in the
beginning of itself.
Formative limbo offering both its cheeks, the world
entire taking it up on its offer.
Head bows ever slowly, a religion of one in the making.
Do not doubt there are digestive points strewn throughout
days--whereupon one embodies the throes of all creation.
Thoughts...come and go with a reflective quality whose
tonalities divide and conquer what must be static...for change.

As this flame
meditates upon
self-erasure...
the rounded lip
of its glass enclosure
creates a teetering
butterfly shadow...
against the wall.

The leaves not knowing
they are green,
are free of greenness...
nor do they know
they are not the wind
that dances them...
so they remain  more than
greenness, and more
than wind.

Weekend, shorn spoof head-to-toeing,
Sunday sobered...I saw
a squirrel sleep for the first time,
from a second floor, cozying
between pronged boughs.
Tiff-tough puff of a tail, spot-spread
by a breeze.
A split vibrational decision,
raring a decided tree--in this
cellular mockup city, NY.

Isn't it fun excising polarities
just to watch them wiggle back
toward one another?
Their vortical tumble intellectually
hybridized so a "school of thought"
can advertise perverse stimulation.
Imagine if Yin were told when to
kiss Yang, and how deeply...
with no Unifying eye contact to
consummate their vision.
Thought...Now...is dead...not God--
as the parts of their Sum have been
called Home in regard to misidentification.

do not wear my words

as flattery, even if you should

find them addressed to you.

they are the reverberations

of our combined power.

sit on the ground,

and look up.

3 inches of poppies are

forecast to slide

down a single-pointed

emerald called a city.

a snowy red where the

cast alchemizes a sun

to break into winding

chills of kernel.

Every droplet is center to
its ripple.
Similarly...a calligraphic circle
responds symmetrically/unsymmetrically,
as per its calligrapher.

loneliness
paraphrases
ultimate
freedom,
only
when
it
considers
i­tself.

Live under these lights tour de force--
an atomic roar had you at: I.
I of scrimmaging ghosts, the obsessive
vouchsafe of the material world.
Coasting torn landscapes, places of wedge
and sleep...with a flood of eyes open.
Upstanding I, ****** in memorabilia--
with thought's filament flickering...
what's seen is heavied as to be believed.
(((I))) has repeated on itself to populate our
marvel...we're everywhere.

everything perceived,

eyes the narrowing

needle.

refinement of perception

shoulders G*ds in

the making.

your ant farm is

an alien's view of

your commute.

offering up one more

acute mirror than

another.

till the object of perception

has nowhere to store

its riches...

and the will of detail's

bequeathed to neither

angel or devil.

The Dream tangles
and untangles strands
of light...
to Waken fuller frames
of Once upon a time...
as the panoramic view
crowns
itself...
Once smiles wide.

epically long threads

are spun--

to clothe

the body of

Ardhanarishvara.

The pallid face
magnetizes its welter...
as the colonnade
strums the space
between the person
taken.
Colonnade of persons...
eidolon's waft of
necessitated phenomena.

The tongue is a
solitary dancer,
whose tip weighs
words that may
never make it out.
These are the words
when truly weighted...
free the solitary dancer.
To the rythm of poetry,
thus made indistinguishable.

all night there was

thunderless lightning,

cracked marble clouds.

fissured altars tracing

the flames of everlasting

candles.

as eyes flickered behind

closed lids.

in Benares

the bells ring

in a way bells

can't contain

themselves while

reverberating.

flowers heaped

beyond color but

never more bright.

as pyres forgive

the host with flames,

and yogis bathe in ash

along the Ganga.

My experience of
you is such, that
you command words
of wisdom to settle
as feathers...
just when your sky's
unsuspecting.

First and Last impression foisted a revelatory sheath that
is the looking glass of all incarnation.
Revelatory sheath Facing both ends of the whited tunnel...
prior to birth when exiting...upon death when entering.
What was, is, will be Faced...prelude to the sound of
silence...that is the mouth of the nameless called by Name.
White pearls that spun their shells, as dilating eyes that
behold self in no-self.
Space fatigued by perfect stillness...self in no-self, suspended
animation...whose mind is allotted infinite motion.
The Original Face...***** features insure paradox...must be
worn and beheld Wholly...lest a chaotic incoherence whorls...
irregardless of the image of self...imageless no-self.
If Pure Consciousness had a Face--divested of its Way through
materiality, to melt by that which it cannot transcend...how
would it appear?


*"Original Face" is a Zen terminology referring to our face before we incarnated.

The ache of a bough,
bent brown furrows
of ellipsoid swirls--
coarsely carved disentanglement.
Rootedness pining after
uprootedness.
As a wind conversely
passes a bough for
proof of existence...
pining after rootedness.
Ache in tandem,
sounding.

White answerable
to white...black
the perimeter
sworn to silence.