A sage, having
bloodied bare
feet on unforgiving
ground...stopped
suddenly.
Remembering
every piece of
ground offers
its shoulder.
The birthplace
of meditation.

reoccurring events

memorized by heart.

rote and featureless

as winter.

tomorrow is a mascot.

pulled from the ground

every year.

featured to predict the

featureless.

There's only a
thin layer between
the seed and soil...
there's nothing
between the soil
and sky.
In truth, growth is
always complete...
even while growing.

All or nothing...is our
growth template--
no matter how great
the escape...
humanity is not just
a word.

no one
ever
sat
there

In the guts of transparency
everything is looking in & out...
the mind is overwhelmed
by the onslaught.
Its delusive nature begins
to breathe upon the glass
of such transparency, for
proof of life.

my all--

my ash's

stow away.

you drank

Halahala

(poison)

from a conch

to sate the vying

ocean of Devas

and Asuras.

your throat turned

blue--overspreading

your body.

my Arunachala of

strength--that i

will die as.

Amrita~

There's a hand
handing the gulf
between each
direction...palms
sweat from the
dance, yet are dry
enough to grip the
circle.
Friction and cohesion,
stirring reasons
to be.

everytime

I

stroke a woman's

face,

and look into

her eyes.

the brim of a cup's

burnt.

a crow's broken beak,

its half-twisted parch--

the grounds slow drink.

enmeshed in sheer swarms

of grass, oily pulpage of feather,

in-flight flailing of a nightlong figure.

carving the reign of its outspread crucifix,

an eyeless glint of a nocturnal center.

in a mansion whose white rooms wander

into one another, commending the symbol

of the crow's alchemy.

hang on the walls and fly.

a hawk flies

within a man.

pointing him out.

crying aloud

the sky's mouth.

happening to air.

This place,
describes
what finds
you, as if changed
by hands
hard with place.
Love is a body
of work...
feel.

discos columned

out of a Dorian

pillar.

harmonium-fold

good graces.

Here...take hold my eyes--
wear them.
What do you see...my presence,
or my absence?
There...I'll take hold your eyes--
wear them.
What do I see...your presence,
or your absence?
If we both communicate a
presence and absence...then
where do you leave off, and I
begin?
It may be from this viewpoint
we are not the sole possessors of
our eyes.

~Wisdom long in the tooth,

self-extracting~

Sometimes when the sea
is a calm occasion, and a
wind ripples in an unbroken
away.
I pause, and see salt poured
upon untold wounds--thereupon
diving in head first.

Heartened by the
merest of motions...
that set the
eyes for inflow...
outflow.
Whose standstill's
in the Heart
of All.

cross hatched
water,
transposition
of currents in
a heart's fish.
black in the
mouth of sleep,
blood's peerless
hearing.
diving sun blue
to the pearl.
shape-happy
pastel balloons
rising slowly.
dissolving eyes
on a prophet's
tongue.

i lift death's

skirt, just to watch

her hemline trail

a puddle.

if only by

contrast to use

the act of self-discovery

suicidally.

boldly proclaimed

by life brought

back.

(judgement is not possible).

(at least for me).

(it keeps happening on the same day).

are you there Now?

here's a parentheses.

one musn't crack nuts in public.

i thought i knew.

the hollowest spaces held to it.

i get it.

Thou~

on this Sunday,

whose day will yoke all

the rest.

i'll be burned at the stake--

leaning against a tree

in full lotus position.

silently screaming with

heretic saints.

bringing down Rome on

all fours.

her face is a gaunt rosebush--

whose thornage & leafage

periodically shear off roses.

as if they were a pile on of

hands.

she squints thru this with

turquoise eyes, those vivid

breakthroughs you get.

her hair's the long entanglement--

of the rueful moistening of night.

precisely at dawn

she worked out

her oranges around

this chest.

spelling color differently.

angulation on a heaving

plane.

dancing through

a window, elated

to rest there.

it was so striking

that I had to look...

all there was, was

the wonder of how

she got there.

the metric of her

genius exceeds

himself.

there's no grappling

with a poet in residence.

how many times can

you wake up is not

a question.

the epicenter

of hands shaken, drained

of blood--miserly grasps.

turning and cleaning a wheel.

a home leaving home.

passed up by a bus driver

blue at the collar like you,

pretending to respond--

but having a blowout with

schedule, while waving him

down for a solid already profiting.

despising the unrreconcilable need

that sustains him.

"an essential worker."

"heros transporting heros, right?"

understanding the de-servant

of karmic implication.

where rage should have been.

there was none, there i remained.

instead, the language of an

oldish latino man trying his best to

communicate with me.

telling me what he did ******

himself by leaving us out.

moments later he began to **** by

the right of the bus's glass waiting room.

**** splashing the pavement.

the Voice of voices

detaches itself...

to speak what will

enter the ear.

truer than the harried

command to Wake

to a given morning.

that falls deaf on her--

as silence is not the

absence of sound.

she's so full of giving...

that for once, let her

hear her own voice~