snow has to

unglue her face,

to uplift from a

blanket.

as she's coming

around...I regret

I forgot to check

in on her.

though temporary

whiteness has come

to be measurable.

the fruit

that you've

taken inside

you grows.

what it bears

you will Know

for what it Is.

when the moon

calls her own name,

and responds to it.

tides flood away.

every which wave a

fully responsive lover.

overcoming her beyond

phases.

water seeing thru change,

compensatory charms

too full for nakedness.

as the feeling of otherness

and sameness grow as one--

love offers its complete intimation.

with a force that could rip one

out of the body, as soon as keep

one in it.

a likeness smiles everywhere, as a

child dreaming out into an open space.

i am that child now, you are that child

now--as we reach out our hands

and take hold as never before.

love loves to be

left alone--

to pair marks indelibly.

concordant flow,

as to say my love.

materialized water.

named by.

this,

Now.

what's it

like to double up

on words?

love i guess.

that question mark's

a seahorse.

Coney Island having

fun.

contradicting the tide.

If Love is openness...
that which gives
Love, receives it in the
same breath.
In that same breath
Love can claim what
gave and received, to
confer openness upon
that which remains...
and that which does not.

at a confluence

of rivers, water

suddenly opened

its eyes.

sight still amid

the flow.

clusters of bluejays

are attracted to these

climes.

their voice is so harsh,

i confused them for crows.

every time

you think again,

a sweet nothing

tries to name you.

your name beckons

The Self, spat on with

a conjuring tongue.

versing words that

repeat on themselves.

till you're no longer in

the way of meaning.

in a storm of

voices and veils--

Our consecrated

crux stands.

the mark of a

King is his ability

to stand alone in

the face of everything.

the very Heart of his

Queen.

Consigned **** crows these hours...
graffiti sputtered on the wall,
capturing the nervosity of its vandals.
The overpass' heavy respiration of
fugitive traffic kept on.
Incoming evening made senseless
overtures...to a time and place that
knows death grows more libidinous as
light dims.
The long way home knows a longer way--
as the black of rats mend distances...
everything seems close enough to bump
into.
To stub the mind's light against...
and against...the subconscious and its
raw maladjustment.
An arm lost to its length, a foot lost to
its step...ingested and digested by hours
that cannot fend for themselves.
So dreams improvise, as eyes close
by degrees...a tonic to what refuses
unveiling.
Almost as if one stood hushed in a
darkened hallway...staring at a skeleton
key in its lock for hours.
Unremitting flashes of lightning creating
the illusion of its turning...the door
opening.
Thus, the tension of what's done and
undone--the visiting hours of apprehension...
of which the consigned **** crows.

the next thing

will always

grow out of

what's in front

of you.

joy can't be chased

down.

peace is a continual

plane.

atoms are

akin to lies--

if cut open,

empty inside.

contractive shells

afraid of the

whole truth.

There's something
about a windswept
mountaintop...
cooling the sun.

What core cut
loose the light
that drifts in the
eyes?
The freedom that's
lost in space...
whose mounting
silence reverberates
a subject and object.
With a hope never
beyond itself, that
they may unite...and
the light that drifts
sees its motion.
A moment whose
standstill encompasses
all its freedom.

a Buddha

is only a core

that has connected

too deeply to see

a way out of it.

As every direction goes on for good...
so one can stop and notice the
directionless--
desire needs plenty of room.
There's no placing this world,
it refuses comparison...as
all-we-know informs all-we-know.
Fiercely independent, this towering
light, this towering dark,
that bathes our private corner
of understanding...
premonitions of peace when nothing
comes to light but Light.

writing with
both hands...
to sync the
mind with a
loss of
meaning.

A farmhand skips the afar of the perceiving
end...a jittery candle-lit sun reenters the
chased oils of its pastoral painting.
A teetering haunt fleshed out...to see
through the sense of place...a movement
of images that will never be seen.
An inflection of a voice that will never be
heard...the imperceptible relationship
between opacity and transparency.
Forever to be taken away by he/she...
merely passing through...passing away...
a farmhand skips the afar of the perceiving
end...open endedly.
A jittery candle-lit sun reenters the chased
oils of its pastoral painting...a bird's ellipse,
counterpointed by amazing graces.

Something therein lives...
to be
opened by degree,
counting by heart the
growth of Light.
Opened by degree...
let that openness
thereby referred to,
be that of Love.

Fall, fall...fell
in love with
this day, as
every.
When the sun
goes down,
her look away
is not frigidity--
but a reminder
of what days
imply.

These infantile, and awkward
steps to the Countless Embrace.
Reliving sunless suns, the blackened
circles of a karmic dance.
Dizzy as ever, dear Lord...still as ever, dear Lord...
center to circumference, drop to ripple.
Tracing newer and newer boundaries
in your Zen-white.
Self-crossing, and aloft...bliss-born
every moment, a Spark in an undulant veil.

Water welcomes
the body, and
its bodiless immersions.
To weigh the senses
upon weightlessness...
refreshed to rebirth.
Only, bathing in
consciousness is what
creates the water for
rebirth...nothing comes
close, except everything.

Shiva waxes his

poetic moon, charnel

ground blue.

always coming back

with something to see.

the way the first thing

crept on the last thing

in a single moving.

cresting her horns,

reliving ash.

the way an aura

around anything  is

dispossessed.

then embraced the

way it needs to be.