Beneath your vast oceans of sky
i trembled in wonder
And the veil was torn asunder
And for a time, standing still
I could see: oh, all my blindness to reality

The gears clanged together, shifting again
I was in the world of other men
And everything seemed so pretend
And even then
just when

I felt crushed to the crumbling, time would flow
Your oceans of time move fast, then slow
The currents in our minds that drift and blow
Listless so

Like our ego and spirit kaleidoscopes
Today we’re high, tomorrow
Low
And time, and time just seems to go,
And all the while we know
We know

That when we bid our loves farewell
Time can be our only hell
Time, on which our minds will dwell
Wasted years, and love grown pale
Life is never our story to tell
I don’t want to end this not so well
These lines are not my story to tell
They rush from under your waves who swell
And creatures beneath the deep who dwell
My spirit is stretched in the wind, my sail

Walk between worlds I know so well
Knew so well, unfamiliar now
Revolving doors to worlds abound
And feet never can stay on the ground
Not forever

Nothing is
Nothing could have been, or could ever be
Nothing at all, no, nothing should be
How could anything ever be? I shake my head in agony
Discarding others’ philosophy

That’s the glory!
Nothing compels to tell this story
Nothing, the natural state of things
From which something pure and holy sings
From which life and love and beauty spring
From which all this sorrow and suffering

From which come these broken and holy rhymes
And discords, and tempos
And faltering times
And wars and egos the size of dimes
That yet tread down the earth
Like Jehovas, endless lines

I cannot
My ego press on
My spirit stretched thin
I cannot
I cannot begin again

I can’t begin to make you see
I can’t begin, for even me
I can’t
I can’t
Not I
Not I

word to us speak
words cannot say
ancient fragments scattered
word in words embedded
craft by spirit and intuition moved
faint and fleeting echoes conjured
strange voices awakened soul
word unspeakable spoken

As my heart grew more enamored,
And as I felt this burning flame,
It was then I knew what mattered—
It was to give Beauty its name.

Her image would not go away,
But all the words I spoke would err,
So overcome I could not say
A description that suited her.

What should perfect Beauty be called?
There is no name that could suffice.
Overwhelmed I was too enthralled—
My language was too imprecise.

You simply are so beautiful,
That any name would be inapt.
Your Beauty makes my heart so full—
That I am speechlessly enrapt.

When your eyes
make your brain
smile

That...

i am the insanity painted across the walls.
the pestilence growing behind your teeth.
the walking contradiction.

together we are the red string, and i am the seamstress.

i tied us together during my tour of heaven;
after the angels revealed my fate
as a word prophet
sealing our fate.

Scattered thoughts to capture the
                     Ineffable emotion
              The lively colors
Of the temple
                         Within
Infinite
            Yet clothed in aging skin  
To speak of it seems
                                 Treacherous
A selfish desire to express its
                                 Fluidity
                               Eloquence
In the entanglement of these words
For when I have become shaken
May I visit upon these words
And indulge myself
For what it was
To be a
         Guest of
Divine omniscience

There is a kind of
silence
which is not
silence.

It is the gnashing
of teeth,
the obstructed
bowel movement.

Speech is an inducement
to polyphony.
But not the truth
behind a muffled cry.

In this, the shudder
of leaves
is more sincere
than all the wrack
heard at the county fair.