if time is weighed

buoyancy, there will

be that which gives.

the stirred corners of

rooms, your teetering

quintessence.

what love you will or

will not live without.

when life becomes a single

word you keep.

historicism has been

brought to the belief...

that three nails were

reigned upon.

hard enough.

to hang up a man.

Ante Christum Natum---Post Mortem Christi.

made of Roman Numerals.

that Self-engrave...

blamelessly.

upon twitching houses of worship.

repeatedly pounded.

.stalking meat.

Up with wakefulness,
mid daydream.
Down with sleepfulness...
mid dream.
Sun of sun, Moon of moon...
mid I-I temple.

Love~

the word forever pregnant

with ill-begotten words.

screams as to deliver and

be delivered from bipolarity.

The body clings
to the image it
was cast in...
forgetting the
image it is
cast in.

I'm an idiot...without being
self-deprecating, Socratic, or
sensational--I state this.
My intelligence is Everywhere...
but that very intelligence
refuses vehemently to be
in vogue.
When I hoard the intelligence
which is Everywhere...I
somehow lose it...I become
an idiot.
I'm reminded of what is
effortless...therefore True.

If there were
words...I would
clear a space
for them...as if
there were no
words.
The way the
world means
everything,
everywhere you
may be...
so there's nowhere
you may not be.

The only thing
impervious to
to death & decay,
is inner space...
remain there.

As a child's arms
openly asking
how much they're
Loved...an impossible
circumference is lit
in answer.

Having gone unnamed...
there's a type of intimacy that's
unbearable...what the heart meant
to say, overcome with saying.
In a peopled world of degreed
dearness...meaning is many.
That look, that gesture, that touch,
that word...all full, all empty.
The rawness of conditionality
scared to death of change, which
is death itself.
All feeling is painfully aware of the
inability to take hold...
the outline of the
heart is: I can't let go...the heart
of the heart: I let go.

Mara's silvery-white locks

entombed in a blackening

locket.

fidgeting curls forming

insipidly winding knots.

As always...
in a word, leaving
off where it begins.
Meaning is derived
by its center.

The blueness of
this sky...has
championed
the suddenness of
things.
Emboldened of color,
as thy will be done.
Godspeed in brilliant
lieu of...
though may come
evils as the bare
necessities of peace.

tracks aline

for the bandwidth

tonnage of connecting

cars.

a radio dial turned all

the way down.

oily newspapers left

on two-passenger seats.

while a train that's bound--

subsumed by stationariness,

is paralleled by another train.

sparking a philosophical debate

between incoming/outgoing motion.

Whereas you hit

absolutely all the right

notes without a sound.

the Aum of me fell

for you.

you could not sustain

such a falling, so you

retreated to incomplete

music.

The stepchildren of passion
bear the selfsame fruit of their
parentage...disowned by their own volition,
till becoming...incrementally dying
aspirants of dispassion.
I think of St. Francis, St. Francis
I think of you often.

Watching a hawk flying
from my window...
I swore I felt it gliding
through my sky-mind.
One spacious encirclement
after another...
felt like white silk pulled
through a white cloud...
as my eyelids slid
downward by some
indeterminate pull.

the yogi

lives one

lifelong

moment

of

ingathering.

leaving

death

empty handed.

That baleful germ watches my going rate.
Comes with blunted spear--chafed flesh
pulled through Nothing come to its tether.
An ingrown horn--gluey eyes sleepless as
any decor in a crooked House.
One wing up on a downturned one.
A roving cackle that stokes the throat of
its fire.
As if the pleasantries of a disfigured humor
abide their disease--know their place
amongst what was, but is no more.
The precipice stilled all the more in dark
of its sky, what land there was to distance
closed...pushed outward the demon's
face as it sped downward.
The All summed up in a word shy of its
Word.
O demon, self-contained thing...whose
slights bar thee by design.
By God's reluctance, animus thee spend,
to rule out what good could come of thee.
As if by the taking you secure increase--
there's no rallying God by the taking...
nay by private fang nor claw core undone.
Your striving put you to what you are.
As so, it is you...that makes the face of
anything--just until it shall have of itself,
bear itself.
That bearing be Godly--your industry is one
of delight in the confusion prior to that
bearing--O demon!
Hence, you are cast out by what sets its
sights by right divine!

The withering of
flowers only initiate
their drift to incredible
refinement.
Their scents remain
in the ethers, these
stars of spring...that
forever inspire winter.
To withdraw from
its white meditation,
as unblent color.

Beauty is the only
vestige that can bear
to be alone with
freedom.
It's that which has
surfaced against
an infinite backdrop.
For the mysterious
initiations of eyes.

the wind is

made of

final exhalations.

blowing in memory

of those.

as windows left open

a crack on this

may day.

to clear the air.

A day is done

in its memory.

It comes back

to me in the

same way.

Without knowing

its done things

in memory of me.

We're

done in memory

Of.

innocence

pulled you

out.

with remarkable

stains.

to bathe in duration.

finding what's in a

name.

startled by such a

sound.

Even a line
drawn
in the sand...
is subject to an
inrush of
grains.

Upon intellectual
collapse... the heart
sets a place for the
mind to understand things
it could never otherwise.
Having been revived by
compassion, it may not
fall for illusion again.

Known, let it be--of sight inhaling the fragrance
of roses...of touch hearing the impactful sounds
of stones sacramentally tasted.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market--coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore the away.
By blameless necessitation what sense, took its
turn of sense...called upon by a thoroughgoing
life.
That life solemnly sworn to solidified places of
light--whose need of need, aggrieves not its
reversion to light, but shines upon flesh's folding.
As every burden reaches for its reason, reaching
what's unburdened by virtue that reach.
As Virgil guided Dante through the dark wood,
he was once guided to offer guidance, the
unbreakable watchfulness of crossing paths.
Of guides, there are many--untold many, that the
idea of emptiness, at any given moment is merely
an interchangeability from fullness...ebulliently so.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market--coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore them away.

Known, let it be--of sight inhaling the fragrance
of roses...of touch hearing the impactful sounds
of stones sacramentally tasted.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market--coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore them away.
By blameless necessitation what sense took its
turn of sense...called upon by a thoroughgoing
life.
That life solemnly sworn to solidified places of
light--whose need of need, aggrieves not its
reversion to light, but shines upon flesh's folding.
As every burden reaches for its reason, reaching
what's unburdened by virtue that reach.
As Virgil guided Dante through the dark wood,
he was once guided to offer guidance, the
unbreakable watchfulness of crossing paths.
Of guides, there are many--untold many, that the
idea of emptiness at any given moment, is merely
an interchangeability from fullness...ebulliently so.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market...coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore them away.

building tops

hear falling trees

for the first time.

apex confirmations.

exceedingly conversant

with wind--as in the

dead of.