as candle to the wish

of the collective's year--

celebrating its birthday.

try not to think of me

at the stroke of Midnight...

while smelling your

spiritual scent.

A cessation, the best
of black, having overslept
the eye of the needle...
some midnight sun
flung to shield this perpetual
wakefulness, becoming it the
more.
Ascents and views, sound
barriers broken...ice cold stars,
white winds of burnt cores.

the mid-throb

of a heart of Hearts,

is more than just a

frenetic shape on

a screen.

or the perfectly placed

ache...going through

its life-review.

unable to mull over

vacant flashes...it

caresses them.

as they transpire.

Might I bid you farewell: madame, sir?
It is in such a way of my ways that
this farewell's come.
The presence of my absence rests
everywhere...will you feel it?
Madame, sir...are the pair of you
disinclined to gather my absence?
That is, has our supernatural
acquaintance minded the material
script, merely minded the material
script?
If so, I should take this moment, as
it surely takes me, to propose my
soul.
It is such farewells that ferry us to
the supernatural, it too will mind
its script.
It is when it has minded its script...
that you will know the presence of
my absence.

I've might've

seen a dust

kicked up in

such a way...

that

its desert  floats

on water.

finding the walk

on that water too prosaic.

Maria Callas shatters

a Pyramid of Giza

size stack of wine glasses...

as the audience open

their mouths wide to

mimic her.

the sky has

fallen for the

mimicry of

flowers.

over selfsame

fields, swearing

to carry on the

scent.

With animal pull
nothing and everything
eat through their dividing
line, till they
become one another.
If by now exhausting
one another, they
become inexhaustibly
one--which would you
favor in kind, having
mind to discriminate?
That is, which comes to
mind first?
Will you be righted by
the right answer, wronged
by the wrong answer?

Vision...the perpetual resurrection of light,
tipping point whose interstice of darkness
is overcome, spreads the image clear.
Furrowing the brow of space like a great
perennial philosophy--the nexus of
contradistinction and unanimity.
Brilliant point via wave, wave via point lit
manifest...hence, objects to sequence the
speed of light which relents time.
Unerring panorama whose open ended gape
presupposes the conclusive evidence of
poetic salt in all its worthiness.
At the starry behest of a many-sunned
convention, apace with rarefied perception.
Vision...the illusory stasis of light, whose
translation is perception--mines the fusion
of angles, of a three hundred and sixty
degree order.
This plenary dispatch, exalting the sum of its
parts...inbuilt fractal minding, mining parts
which are The Sum.
...Om...

Truth enamored of itself...based upon
the forever following.
Flow's entrails--the
seven circuit labyrinth pends the
recollection that yielded it.
Thus, the unsound voice pouring
voicelessness.
Minotaur's digestive sound bite.
Where Once, as only Once allotted
the victor of Truth.
As told, as held...now confounds
with a self-fabricating prophesier,
profaning all telling.
Disconsolate swipes of emotion
make and remake the barren.
Pray tell the lessening visage of thee,
where by and by shall deem thee
bygone.

Acuity's sweetheart, without a peep what whole
to picture, reflect you.
Black hole gone white...you consume all put to
you.
Unwavering stare ad nauseam--great gatherer
of last nerves.
Your only sentiment, an unnerving one.
As per second guess, images donned their
reality within your confines...their dead end of
your wide open.
Grey skies of luminous latency, frozen lakes,
serrated knives, sentient fog--smack of you.
Timeless conversation piece on reserve for what
thing may look into you.
How can something so crystal clear, be so cut off?
Your desensitization was fashioned darkly--that
pained slip...that recoil of what you reflect.
More final than the wall hang you, as to eclipse.
You belong shut in a dark, musty closet, or the
cobweb corner of an attic.
Clearly...you do not merit the light of day...it's fire
to brush...O Great Teacher!

a mastered

fetal position--

misses the

eclipse.

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.

A moment's consolation
is conveyed illogically,
its Intelligence has
communed with
unimaginable factors...
the cut and recut edge,
exclusively abreast.

perspective moves

with you...ever notice
.
that?

monk parts budging.

call it state of the art--

don't you dare disclaim

this good fight now.

or nothing will happen.

transcendence--

be about that rest.

if you can, but The Master

will never, ever pat you

on your Head.

Mark how, with alien glow--
an imposing form proclaims your
ecstasy, mark!
This monolith of first blushes.
Circuited by a spirit on leave...contours
of seeped salt lit by their sweet burrow.
Ground firmed, with every step the fall
of the world--whose rise only knows
successive steps.
Fast upon heels...keeled over--glistening
with anointment...mark how!
This overarching winter--of co conspirators
in the dead of...who bank and blow
blood till blue in the face.
Their skulls slated to sleep through, as white alms bowls--
yet they contrive...bite you upon both hands,
with the crumpled features of the face you empower.
You are the bell's curfew, a sound more
ancient than rite...where hearers come out
of their skin.
You leave peace to itself...to your quadrant
gape--lest to see what may, or may not configure.
Knowing what endeavors to stain--will belabor
to dissolve as that stain.
How like grape to wine--how like wine to oblivion...
to sodden a leavened sky.
With the care of a flower--never petulant in its exorbitant
youth, cut and set down...one for every step circuiting
this monolith.
These shocked straits of limbs, overrun with sourceless
current...flow onward, onward, onward--by command!
One miraculous, an continuous deference to that
command...seeking out what shall sate the need to do.
What is it to be content with what thou art...is it to forgo,
do what thou wilt?
Retain thy image...do not cast what thou were cast in the
image of...a voice says.
Who hears--as command is voiced, both command and
commanded hear, here.
Unmoved mover--Monolith...dispassionate salve to daily
death, circuited by spirit.
Till blindness, deafness fully informed of stone--alien with
glow...marked how!!!

Crowning canopies
of trees,  mid monotonia
to their wood, huddled
in prayer.
Cobwebed against the great ultramarine Eight--
brittle scintillas, gloaming
to vespers.

Moonlighting this Dreamscape,
the Eye that gleans panned...
indelibly placed as to overcome,
meanings unmoved
till they mean.
For the sake of: here to here...
a head shakes in fluid agreeance.
As if to understand stars cannot
pepper what they've issued from.

Trees happened unto themselves--to outlive
the sinuous breach of serpents.
The morass tugged imperceptibly by their
perfect concentration.
A lime-green drain of their hunger's
motive, their solar ration rekindled on the
way down.
Nature in the gorgeous take of its want,
its law reaching for itself wide awake.
If you are made to make of nature, then
you are unnatural--you've stepped out of line...
you are a human being happening unto yourself.
The serpent plummeting into the morass
from the selfsame Tree of Knowledge.

there's a summit
where bones
whistle.  
there's a hole
where flesh
wriggles.
keeping
perfect time.
what was distant
of realities
become more
real.
as in: all here,
before
pointing.

Take heed, but do
not take hold...memory
is more than can be
remembered.
From personal, to
collective... by
disjunction it will be forgotten.
As if its shapelessness were a ripple,
touching on itself to be--
to remember...till it must
adhere to the loss of its round.
Truly, memory is more than
can be remembered,
minds are drawn out by lack
of distinction.

A prolific attendance
enlists the saints of now...
whose virtue's the patience
of dying.
God-house gongs
can be heard...
melting into one another
as sound and time.
The sunlight seems
to be loosing a stockpile
of days, disassociated from
"this day"...a nauseating
feeling comes when
sunlight informs more
than flowers.

The most violent

act I can conceive--

is putting myself in

her shoes.

Where a flame

crawled back to

wick.

we've been
mortally
wounded
by the need
to know.
we come
again and
again.
we die for it.
knowing
and not
knowing
are the same.

As waves break
to redefine the boundaries
of infinity...
a shoreline is moved
to pieces.

no month's a sentinel,
as direction self-orients
what's frozen in place.
with a sound only sound
could bear, enough to
move the wind.