There's a string between
our fingers,
there's a string between the walls,
there are strings that reach
beyond the trees
and sing electric calls.

We listen lest we fall.

All waves!
Breaking shape and making
move where once was static.

The way
that we behave in rain
is no less than dramatic.

The thunder through the window,
the lighting through the glass,
that storm the room
and spark the bloom
to witness flame then ash.

There's a string between
our fingers,
there's a string between the walls,
there are strings that reach
beyond the trees
and sing electric calls.

We listen lest we fall.

http://acc6.its.brooklyn.cuny.edu/~phalsall/texts/taote-v3.html

The map is not the territory.
The menu is not the meal.
Cognitively, we dwell in a symbol-scape
and easily mistake
the signpost for the path.
Spiritual and New Age medias
offer signposts,
but,
if one enshrines the sign,
it can make captive the one wishing to walk the path.
Leaving the seeker abandoned of their journey for a
golden calf.

Really, all teachings are distractions from the Truth.
Science and Spirituality are methods of inquiry
and, surely, have little
or nothing
to do with watching videos on the internet.

Spill blood
like wine
over the bed-sheets.
This ceremony
leaves none
unexplored.

As soothsayers
we see dreams
and visions of
time past
and passing
in the entrails
and tea leaves.

What did we hope to find
in the fleshy hollows
where our sweetness
sits in wait
to rot?

Once found
is our fate made sound?
Solid.
A still life
in the waiting room
where we will break our bonds.

When the movement
stilled
and the dust kicked up
was hushed,
did we find ourselves there
under the blood stains
and honey,
or were we waiting
forever on the outside?

Always am I transparent
under a shifting moon.

Out of one seed
how many seeds again
to the ebon Earth
warm and returning?

Eternity presumed
in a worm-cast bedding,
rain-wet and brimming.

Open ended inception
of the dark and probable womb
making space for the determined
and all it's loose-tied light-wires
stringing off into every abyss.

Potential is Here,
still though not asleep,
she is very much alive and viable,
eyes wide beneath the surface,
her pacific inhalations
example for the dynamic,
her sighing a guide,
like a mother at length,
gently directing
the life of her child.

Out of the night
the light is risen,
out of the dusk,
a bent-spectrum slips.

In the void
there is no coming
or going,
no place else to where one may be banished.

In the open hands of odyssey
we are forever received.
Of the sojourn cyclic
myriad destinations meet in the middle
where a thousand flowers flame.

Out of one seed
how many seeds again
to the ebon Earth
warm and returning?

i used to cradle her bleach-cracked hands in mine
and decode the stardust resting within her fingerprints
     up until the day that i lost touch with the art of reading braille
     and she stopped slinging tall-tales for me to fetch
and rest the plot-twist at her feet

often in the post-script
i'd find my train of thought highjacked by the sunlight illuminating the rainbow of earth-tones ablaze
in her frizz-ridden curls
as if she'd been washing her hair with the damaged case of beer
she'd gotten for half-price at liqour depot
     she never did quit drinking
          but neither did i

at least we tried

though sometimes
in the middle of the night when nothing was alright
and we'd barely survived another fight
her face would catch my glance
cast aglow by a flood of lava-lamp light
    
     the sea of freckles resting at the crest of her cheeks
     rose lips perma-pursed in half tilt
     her resting heart-rate so high that i could almost see it
          pirouetting within her chest

it was then that i'd love her best
     amidst the ruins of who we were
     just moments before

Sometimes the body is contagion
To the soul.  Stars in their mission fall
To seed the fertile flesh, ignite
Blue waters of sulfureous hearts,
And so the flash is set to cancel
In the flood.  

Sometimes the lip of soul onto seal
Will not hold, before he first knocked
And let flesh enter, thorny pegs
Pricked nerve and pierced bone on his climb
To the rose, yea, some stars odd as
Meteors crash.

In the swan-sea, song-sangy-frame of crib,
Rough hewn words bent mold to scrape, like
Blasted coral, stood half-submerged
Amid sea and sky, for between the leaves,
Behind the eye, there are little stars
Shining like existence.

In a circle world he fashioned green
Blazons about the darkling day,
Fostered by celestial navigation,
Wrote a language for music, on a map of love
And charted the force of green in a wind-
Rose of discovery.

Sometimes the soul is not contained, it
Bursts in silent sound like well water
From the source.  And of men in streets
He saw the pennies in their grumble
Eyes, and of love and its course he rubbed,
Tickling dim stars.

It was his thirty ninth year in that fall
To heaven when the steeping cell,
Refused to push in its tide.  Homeless
And free on scaffold of bone the middling
Man retracted from sun to sink
With the moon, turn-tiding-toward sea
Like a changeling.

And as ever, nor often, unwavering eyes
Sprout through shifting grains.  And as he spoke
Quite rimless, Dylan Thomas was petrified
In undying light, and solid set within a rill
Of reef sparkling in concert betwixt gas
And sea, so becoming in purple sleeves,
This constellation of mute singers all,
Dried five-fingered-fish, bright embryos
Returned to the shell, they burn between the leaves,
Beset the grounded skies and show sprite flashes
In the dark where He has left his imprints, burning
Above and plastered below.  The first rock stars!

Invoke yourself,
let your imagination flow,
me on my knees praying
to you, my goddess,
separate your delicious-globes,
lower your open-flower,
kiss my prayer-mouth,
let my dreams come true,
cascade your sacredness
into my throat of desire,
allow me to taste
your inner fire.