The coffered ceilings
of cathedrals hum...
their octagonal scenes
are dreams of extracted
nectar.
I'm reminded of a dead
bee I parted from a
flower...it was already
so much more the bee,
so much more the flower.
Its non-doership loved
to death its doing.

Picasso's:

Les Demoiselles d'Avignon,

was an Oedipal origin story.

breakout ****** manuevering

faces.

Argosy...a bejeweled swan decked in the riches
of the material world.
Body of water unending, tangled in biological
hierarchy--Agamemnon's fateful net.
Sodden to pending depth--forbidding save for
cursory glance.
Blent black, greens, blues covet their color--
invoke static tone.
As it is here and there a secreted navigation
plumbs, facsimile of sky.
Where wave walls glassy calm to ripple, sure
this ****** to near global proportion.
Stoic rhetorical question to land--whose implicit
question mark hooked Atlantis.
This pensive strew, overlay--horizon's sutured
cusp...hazy scare of seagull tossing hale Mary.
Of Ahab and Helen, whereupon to round the
bend of their will cannot be sought here.
Down in niche of sand where starfish spreads
its forehead, beholds enlightenment as sifting
shafts of sunlight...sinking.
Meridian's mime ebbing and flowing as an
everlasting kiss...so tender God's heart swelled
seven seas.

Clytemenestra hurled

her grace, as Agamemnon

saw her net before it came.

She stabbing wildly thru

its grids into the blood of him.

Of time, to meditate upon, will not be the meditation
begun with.
Time thought to itself: I shall be short and concise,
long and imprecise, and in the middle you are...
presently.
To trickle less into more--more into less...for what
wanes documents scarcity.
Drinks the bitter drop, and elongates a weary grin.
Time assumes the rite of Way, as we wait submissively...
and in accumulation of wait on wait--we wait no more.
Our turn is taken up, in turn.
Why the trilogy of a past, present and future?
What Physician unifies light outer and inner, in a
concentrated beam...to pass over our three eyes?
Perhaps an eye for, kept upon--each pillar of time's
trilogy.
Time ensnares our volition to ensure our grace, as the
wind that enlisteth not, bespeaks of it.

an old man bent forward,

just above his cane--ambled

along a park trail.

paused to speak to a little boy

in a carriage, the enmeshment

of every birdsong on planet earth

came out of his mouth.

the little boy laughed hysterically.

On your knees
before a watery
plane...glassy
turbulence,
****** reconstruction.
Face down, face up...
omnium gatherum.

get off on

fear, just remember

to leave a chill--

like fruit flies avoiding

lightning.

on a countertop.

stay with me a moment--

I've need of your vigilance,

we've taken turns keeping

watch round the fire forever,

as the other slept.

now we must both stay awake--

to let the Long Night sleep, witness

the end of our search.

we fill with peril in the passion of

that end, as one line crossed two ways

towards one another.

where now every moment's day spawns

worlds that cut sharply to your absence...

echoing ****** births in the call of your name.

i rinse off the blood of that desolation to feel

your presence, with such ritual care--that One

Day you'll take hold of my hands as if to say:

enough my love...I'm here.

If darkness is
one long confession,
light drives it to
exhaustion.

there is nothing

to appeal to--

as one night of

ink runs off the

tip of a pen.

a chief choking down the

blood of his pride.

one tent under the north star.

while peace is kept between tribes.

attempting to dance wild enough

to shake off his scales.

gored by the gross injustice

of what has not been told

in full--his battle cry.

a vision of mounting his legless

horse, outrunning freedom.

prostrate dust of a trail blazed.

seeking the wisdom of ancestors.

who sing him the settled scores

of sleep, to sleep.

there's a growth

in all that aloneness

can deem itself.

a companionship

that knows how to

share your kind of

space.

one that just keeps

pouring in, one that

just keeps pouring out.

one that just keeps.

Clutch this passing away...gold-fleck
with outpouring hands this sable
workspace.
Ruffle angelic feathers in a fit of
loving zeal...oblige them holiday.
Tear thy body to pieces of giving...
for lack of better place.
As there shall be places in store where
being may be moved.
It is right, as breath need not mind
to do so...as yet it does.
There's only rise in effortlessness...
and in that rise what is innate divulges
itself.

where went the

last

defense of life

given up, to

love with

That Love?

it feels very

much like she's

left our

company to

go searching for

the meaning

of what opened

her in such a way.

when water

fathoms itself--

does it freeze

or flow?

Through dereliction
of logic, the hemispheres
of the brain wash each
other as hands.
Thereby openly conversant
with the heart, as of any
matter.

Ophelia...smote egress, you are Rimbaud's:
"Drunken Boat".
The river you fell asleep upon found you a sea.
Your bones knew no seabed--poppies, marigolds,
orchids, black roses fill your eye sockets, mouth and rib cage.
You substantiate what color the sea may give your lay.
Its foamy waddle has signaled you to one too many
climes...an orison broke open.
What strain of tragedy now holds you, spine on depth,
eye sockets on sky?
You dove headlong into the Shakespearean maelstrom--
where mortal coil confounds, chin-up darling.
Great winds fish-scale your waters, only to invert their maw.
There are lines daily of sea's breadth, whereupon its
creatures come single file to kiss your bone.
Ophelia...wrested from river to sanguine sea, shedding trails
of flesh.
If bones were the eye of a needle...you've pulled through,
heir to tragedy--circumnavigating your infamy.

the colder air has begun breaking

open the patternized flights of birds

like stones.

against what?

above a land of leaves in toppling

rotations--skirting along the second

wind of ground, how the breathless

rises.

that which stares at the sky intently

enough to trade places, with all

it's burried--knows what it takes for

snow to fall.

if there's an exactness to a moment, prior

to its occasion, that can be seen beforehand--

fitting perfectly into a long time come now.

it's here, chilling fingertips that reach for

warmth, or opt for exposure.

To what tired
end does fire
lose its orange
grip?
Will it ever let
go its final
handful of night?
A fabric too
rich for time
is torn.
Keepsake's keepsake's
keepsake.
There's not a gawddamn
angel or devil nimble
enough to part those
fingers.

bees blacken

yellow stripes

in origami roses,

as we go viral.

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.

a
bindu
is
a
singular
obsession...
continually
circumambulating
it­s origin
of
devotion.

the static motion

of chimney smoke

through dense fog.

Orphic flux hung

from the horns of

pressing trees.

legion scare of

black birds.

overspread

disappearances.

caught my beloved bird

preying, red tail hawk.

the rich olive green

underbelly of the Whitestone

Bridge offered up a glimpse

of a twofer.

redtail with a pigeon in toe--

a solitary feather whirled down

from the appreciably wide

crossbeam.

no more feathers fell down--

only that redtail going in.

watching it dip up and down ,

somewhere along the line

learning to dismember its prey

within that obscuring crossbeam.

from other birds of prey.

underestimation

of the other,

otherness en toto--

can breed a karmic

dynasty.

Narrower than anticipation...
and wider than its
happened hour,
otherness for day...
trailed by specificity.
Where the path may
be the breakage
of the heart, and
the step that mends it.