...The literalists bide their shine...
against things they've longfully
brushed.
Thoughtfully lighting these so called
years... in passing...adhering to the time
that lovingly takes them...flourish.


Konstantinos Mark

At land end's trembling lip,
passed eye's can-can't see, at the
sky-sea line where vessels dreamt
of falling from.
The king of the animals was bit by
a pair of star-studded teeth, to
dispel the myth of water.
Wild with wilder strokes, their
plunking slip slaps, nowhere-fasting.
Slogging away at ancient rains,
beating their surface round, showing
droplets what they were.
Body to body of water, weightless
upon where great floods got drunk.
Pulled in by the call to insignificance
through the dereliction of duties,
unscrambling the doubling deep's face.
The how of the humbling left to the
king of the animals, back floating...
with the lo-upturned eyes of a saint.

Why are you looking at me like that?
'So one day this tenebrous look will repeat on you as an
unsheathed star, and in the aftermath of that
luminous wound all the angels of my intent
will leak therefrom.'
'Having seen--your heart will assume that wound,
and my music will come out of your eyes!'
A music whose movements constrict, a time-lame
twine only a serpent may undo--you knew!
How went the all, how went its nothing...that diabolical tune?
I hear it through feeling, it's so haunting I look over shoulders
I never knew I had.
You left panning cameras half-blind, live with feed, to every
nuanced detail.
Your minute release of messianic trailers doomed to never premiere,
neglecting to bow your head, and proclaim: It Is Finished...)))
It was more than the lay of the land, such was your art of survival,
hence war.
It's messier than they story--when two human beings come together,
what's gospel cross references  googleplexes...all but to betray a lack
of designation...human, being?
The poppies are everywhere, I stuff their dreams!
I see hearts skewering hearts--lights out, lights in...their
truest sutra: "form is emptiness, emptiness is form."
Our decline was so steady, you said you saw the beauty in ugly...
so now we're both transfixed in near catatonia.
The poppies are everywhere...I see you chopping off your locks
at odd angles, listening to Tori Amos--hoping they won't follow
you cursedly...your face waxed in eye-melt.
So erriely sentient, surfacing glimmers of nonlocal breaks of news.
You roared down that Kansas highway, one foot on gas, the other on
dashboard...that flat, unending highway where we saw the eastern
sun set, catching our dust-black wind as detracted distance.
Where: "kyrie elieison, down the road we must travel" sooth-said through the radio...ahead, the poppy-pigmented end of the line,
warning the last of the sun sets west.
That night when we retired to that Kansas motel, we were never
more parched in our lives.
Yes, and like the pickled western crawlers you can purchase in some
gas stations...the devil was in the details, a poppy between his teeth.

Today, I fell into a dead stare on the sun, (unblinking) as I write this
the pen emerges from a neon-green orb, blotting letters.
As this sight settles...I will like to tell you how I saw the
sun rattle its rim, and flicker its pregnant bulges in messages,
that cradle ripples to havens of purity.
Today, here--now, the sun will set east nor west...with love, nor
hate.
The sun has set...the poppies pause for a moment of magnanimity.

The preemptive strike of being...Light...
the most refined of matter.
...Look...and the glass shall shatter--
as transparent modalities gladly relent
their spaces.
...As Everything moves in...being moves
out...only to mismatch a coming and
going...there's nowhere to go...there's
nothing to be, we've already been Lovingly
found out...Look.

Jezebel purposely loses the little girl she
chaperones.
Taking great pleasure in watching her
face become stiff with desperation.
Lunging from concealment, scolding:
'Why are you always doing that?!'
So a confused cruelty can match up tears.
Jezebel "lost touch" with daddy for the
equivalent of a life sentence & blamed it
on her ex.
Let bedridden daddy lay in raccoon ****, as the confidences of a forest kept him company well over a decade.
Jezebel wondered why daddy didn't share
a box of chocolate when they finally
caught up.
Jezebel once said her ex looked at her like
a little boy across the room, that she
wasn't his mommy--that neediness was a
turnoff.
Which became Jezebel's twisted leverage,
her revenge on daddy.
Even placing a quote at the bottom of one of her poems, that celebrated the
breaking of a stoic (referencing her ex).
As she initiated an affair.
All stemming from the hardy stead of an
eighties photograph, a little girl kept at
bay with a dolly.
Right before Jezebel became daddy's
supposed power grab.
Sat in front of enormous plates of pasta
she had to finish, forced to separate
portion from proportion.
"Daddy, daddy, you *******, I'm through."
Are you Jezebel, really?
As you seek to avenge that photograph
through men, pose them for that power
grab.
Jezebel knows better now, right Jezzy?

there's a

thimble that

pulls spiders

thru.

they lose all

their legs--

but don't scream.

only reconfigure.

the glass half empty

welcomes a ghost--

to walk its rim.

round and round

without end.

having stopped

drinking when

half full.

for fear of such

a haunting transparency.

the retaining half allows

for its existence.

rather than the cup quenched

of philosophy.

They're blue in the face, vitally

impeded by the implications of a

a misstep.

Requesting cleanup in aisle two.

Gladden them with it, draw it out--

torture the itch good.

Give it to them, release them from

wicked thrall, crowd a crowd to

distribute feelies.

Remind them how good otherness

looks at its worst.

Your public needs you to come apart

like there's nothing to see.

It'll prove useful someday.

as every candle holds

its gaunt station with no

epiphanous head.

the temple stands at the

mercy of days, with no

word from the messenger

whose sign in coming began

the act of worship.

being is the utmost command--

even it goes blind when it points

to what it is upon what it is not.

there is a way, there is always a way.

light too unified with dark, dark too

unified with light as no other.

original face to original face.

could it be, is it really you--is it really me,

is it really us and no one?

Aum Namah Shivaya~

this outward ****** that visits

us--after cold buckles when its

interminable rites have been read.

this visitor--right from the heart,

going right for the heart...throws us

into that central fire.

April is concomitant with the abrupt

feel of flame, all dormancy goes up.