On a trail long led away from what

it leads to.

Large wet leaves bent down to those

led.

On the back end of a rain, that already

considered itself over.

Left behind the basic goodness of a

cool breeze, effortlessly lifting the

forest.

As if edification let out levels of vibrancy.

Those led to observe peak vibrancy.

There again, large wet leaves realized

they were in place to greet--expended all

greeting.

No more abrasive than a pulse, that

gave you some much space you wanted

to give some back.

That's when large green leaves

became so responsive, that their

expressions made you see as what

moved you.

intentions are breaking their

backs while paving hellish paths.

the best of not saying at the height

of meaning, with no where to go.

even too final for the last push.

intersecting like crosses with

light speed visions of forsakenness.

wrought with the motions of what

is promised to pass--but does not.

left with the inability to sit with

breath, nor the poems it generates.

sometimes there's an existent

persuasion, that shadows individually

agree to blend in, As.

that is--they enter.

you know they've entered, having

conjured them, too well anon.

a merciful mark that appears &

disappears--hiding for your sake.

known by import, that which seeks

the gratification of seeing...but not

being seen.

A peach swallows three dimensionality

to the pit, to peach thus.

White heat sensuously cleaved, then

bound tight.

A searching rash that overspreads

yellow-orange/orange-yellow, too slow

for pounding juice.

The indomitable ruler of unseen flesh--

that loves the teeth it never conceived of.

Resting on a lace napkin driven to

accentuation--on a cream wood kitchen

table.

a top hat in an empty freezer.

thumb size magnets of vintage Xmas

lights, shifting around like a ouija board.

one dimensional warp sleights of color,

motioning.

placing blind eyes to motion without

color, lit irrespectively by contrast--

or current.

battering ram frost, whose heavy

breathing leaves the freezer door open.

A knot tightened to where it cannot be

unknotted--will grow too slack to secure

a shoe.

Don't cut the shoelace, the shoe has

character now--what was an initial act

of laziness will yield more effort.

Use it to walkoff smooth exits, all the way

to subsequent entrances.

Except, turn around before entering--&

walk all the way back to unsmooth

entrances.  

It's imperative that you state: I was here.

Otherwise only dead grandmothers can

undo such knots.

an uptown scarecrow debuting

downtown birds, browses convexo-

concave storefront windows for

a costume.

stuffed with a sun's harvest of fully

lost hair.

more unfamiliar than any creeping or

flying thing.

venturing into daylight, where one

image winces into the form of all

images thereafter.

an odd vengeance running out of

paint, still wet--yet dry.

as a mouth's penchant for words,

once uttered, forcing the most

well-adjusted hypocrite to situate

Self.

just when it is shown to its very own

space...things unravel.

tried silence

animates the bird,

landing on the branches

of wings.

shaking off the pinpointing

call of paired eyes, as if a

berry a touch too...reified.

a beak set to choke.

soley possessed by a camera

panning each bar of a birdsong.

held in an ear's heart tossing

over waking.

hermes winged head

loudly ***** to activate

morning light.

a swelling ember of memory.

sleep's spindrift treble and static snows...

an interrupted monody.

as the hoary lines of a precipitous ghost,

leave off to step into the man.

sure heirs to confusion--

form a majestic, medieval

circle.

saunter met with danse.

the plot shifting floorboards

beneath their feet.

to the lute of John Dowland.

the ovalesque necks

of a swan--

profile.

towel mop...rinse.

an up-pour of salt.

from water.

Tower and eidolon, three and a half

times removed--stand still of no man's

land, coiled up in The Alone.

Parashakti...consort, companion, partaker


of Shiva laid down upon her uninhabited


hermitage, and watched as she sleeps.

the way water surrounds the brinks of land--

eating at its sides.

Shiva...tower and eidolon, emptying aloneness

into aloneness.

upon the third distillation, emptiness tears in half.

a half removed from three times.

as Shiva sinks the centers of Oceans that circumambulate

his Ajna, overhanging a crescent moon as a beacon

risen Again.

a tower viewer careened by a tourist,

trying to find their center.

the adverse effect brought on--somehow

being too scenic, a fake hyperrealism.

which becomes the irrational fear of concurrence.

not unlike: 'G*d you scared me, i didn't know you

were there!'...

as so the tower viewer stays positioned by

sudden disuse.

~Before there was a first for anything,

sound cleared its throat, to wet the Ocean.

Heavenly bodies had the *** of souls, that

came into themselves through the ******

of space.

Naked as what came along, as naked as what

came along...unlayered by mentation.

The purest and smoothest drafts, drafting

nakedness as the only symbol of arrival.

These gods and goddesses that kickstarted

the will of Will itself.

Are unendingly chanted first and foremost

of sound, enchanted to meet anything~

oceans converge & breach a single

surface--roll toward me as a globular

bulge comes up to be fed.

the shiny sweat of a vicarious void

slurps as it snarls--chases its own face,

that refuses to wash off.

it is then i fall back on what i truly am--

with a look of acknowledgement.

there's such a buoyancy to what aligns

depth.

Picasso's: Madame Moiselle

looks like a trapezoidal

crime scene--lamps turned

over.

highlighting gesturing ******.

treetops pass their

basket--

light to the nodose

pit of round.

pillared trunks

sprouting into one

another.

come maximums of

height.

contoured chione

apto pnuema...

hand off touches of

wind to the ground.

turbid rusts murking

the lens of a tiger eye stone,

slowly set down.

plucking the harps of

wandering minstrels with

triple vision.

singing the prowess of dusk's

burial.

the triptych of a bridge

volumes its water...

a passable erasure.

of an altar nothing should

be said.

the triptych of a bridge

smoothens over again.

poised as light murmuring

to its confidant.

setting aside the differences

of air pulled by constant

traffic.

there's this triptych of a

bridge, that knows what

wind is made of...here and

there.

separate as ways gone as far

as they can go.

seeing passed doubles.