The moon's modest nature is entrancing
It's splendour is never fully displayed for long for our eyes to indulge in
It transforms itself every night
Leaving us to outline its curves
while it encrusts light in a sombre sky of darkness.

Winter song. Fall passing.
And too with so many like this. When she is not there-

   Vibrations after the battle, footsteps breathing deeply into the cotton beds and privy the shrews of their slavery. Heavens' toll after me, brine and abalone shimmering.

Cast in a shadow of half-arched feet, slender narrowness shimmering crystals obfuscate the fury of the ringing;

Every evening when I wake she shakes her bell.

It ripples like food coloring droplets undulating in a dixie cup on the mantel of a kitchen sink. The elbows sprout out first, then the head stridently strikes upwards catapulting the arms and wrists to the sides, and then at last when all is deep ****** blue, the raw hairless legs unmask themselves and fold out into the edge of a postcard and the reddy, cerise snowflake stain brands the juicy signature of an incredible beautifully imprinted star. And still she is not there.

Into the white rooms the insects crawl, at last the cacophony of their bedeviled stridulations eeking as if from a broken and collapsed jaw. A necessary end to every inch of hoarfrost strung across their elliptical hoot-shaped jowls-

These are the marks that time encrusts upon disheveled and dilapidated Spline.

In dark matter there are Spline. In shifty daytime television sitcoms, Spline saw at our ears and cost us trillions of migraines each year. Three Splines sit on a log, another four on a fence. They race each other in elevators, make inappropriate gestures, make airplanes disappear into the Indian ocean, and steal the breath right out of our lungs. Spline cannot come any closer. Spline are the dreary minutia which separate friends, they are the sentence that never makes it off of our tongues, the anger we leave curled into our fists.

She is not here and the fevers are burning. The languages are deafening. It is almost impossible to believe words like these were ever spoken aloud. She is not here and the jeans don't fit, the dogs are shy, and the accidents keep happening. There is never a glimpse at perfect and hot happiness. There is nothing here but the spotty ash-pocked masked faces of the Moon Men, hurrying and scurrying.

She is not here and the sea is drying up. The war is in the street and in the streets the men are dying. Everywhere is dross and cataclysmic end-dust, desiccated hours and dandelion seeds.

Inside of the room the music plays softly. Glass's solo piano Metamorphosis Three and Satie's Gymnopedie. It has been only six hours since she left, but

When we see each other I am superman

February 2nd: Dire was my day, every move I made was seen as a mistake.Malice my good intentions, I’ve been labeled as a hurtful, evil, and ugly man. Believed to be a demon, from the pits of hell; I am feared by all and eluded like a disease.
        
February 3rd: My time is spent in isolation. Never desiccated are the tears that endlessly flow down my wrecked up face. My screaming is unheard. Nothing is heard in this room, I am alone.
        
February 4th: Blood encrusts my massacred body, a true painting of affliction. I have run out of tears. Crying is now a more complex process, involving the bitter sweet touch of a blade.
        
February 5th: Exile is slowly beginning to **** me. The hands of time have firmly grabbed my neck and with each passing hour its grip grows stronger.

that mistress
fills you up and falls
apart; lest the air
boil up and consume the
heart

sour and steep and stoic
like a rock upon the mount
my yearning for the mistress of the
night

she bind you and stolen
away that little gift from
above; above yet she descended

her fingers like gold and iron
hair as strong as her heart
silver encrusts the lining of the
soul but betrays not a single
phrase

lament on your behalf and
seal the fate of the future and
fate of the wealth of the triumphs

***** motels and decrepit
churches, she preys
yet against their better wishes does the bird
go on singing and singing and singing

pray the lord my soul to keep and pray
the devil my world to weep

Column by column the legions' feet
march disciplined down Watling Street,
followed by rumbling carts and grumbling
stragglers leaving villas crumbling.

To Rome to save the imperial home,
making Britain an enterprise zone
for Saxons, Vikings, Celts and Angles,
savage battles and local wrangles.

Weeds weave tapestry around a tomb.
Dust encrusts a silent Roman room.
Mosaics stare at the rotted roof.
Painted plaster falls, jigsaw proof.

Perhaps when shopping centres fail,
and motor cars no more prevail,
when wattle homes are reinvented,
then thinking time will be augmented.

I reminisced of a time long ago when I was only twenty years old.
I was studying English 101 at the University Of British Columbia in the summer of Eighty-Four.
It was at a summer session because I had failed English 101 two years before.
A failure due more to my citizenship in a different realm than to the failings of my intellect, aptitude or the magnanimity of my core.
“You have such a poignant and evocative writing style,” wrote my teacher on the short-story I had submitted the week before.
I had written about a lonely sojourn on a desolate beach in the pregnant moment,
When sunset injures day's abandon and grants night the freedom to roam.
I had written about the mighty North Shore mountains,
Hoary with age and reverberating with an energy ineffable to the mind,
But savored by the soul.
I remembered how exhausting of mind, but above all of the soul, writing that short-story had been.
I tried to reveal my spirit bare and exposed.
I tried to destroy the ramparts and blow open the heavy gates shielding my secretive core.
But through my exhausting efforts I had only succeeded in weakening the facade between me and the world,
Usually held at arm's length,
But through my story then, only slightly nearer yet still remote.
There is an essence within everyone hidden in a chamber far beneath the veneer that encrusts our core.
We seldom allow it expression beyond just its fractured shadows dancing on an external wall.
But if we all dig deep and reach into this secretive chamber,
We will, to our astonishment, discover we are all reaching into the same chamber,
Not a separate one for each within the all.
And then we will grasp each other's same-hand.
We all share the same soul.
I knew that in the novel of my compulsion I would have to expose this chamber,
Ramparts and heavy gates destroyed once and for all.
And my novel would then cry out from this collective chamber,
And speak for my left and for my right with one voice for all.
It would be the ineffable ground of being reaching out to humanity from the navel of Creation,
Proclaiming the dawn of a Third Age.
It would announce the sunset of the Second Age before this coming dawn.
A moment pregnant with change that will forever be remembered in the annals of the Civilization of Man.
It would herald a paradigm shift far greater than the Renaissance,
Not just an age of reason, but of reason and divinity intertwined as an inseparable whole.
I envision the Third Age to be promoting the two primordial dancers,
The abstract magical and the other its complementary whole.
To engage in the Dance and thence unshard into the Eternal Garden from whence we all came forth.
They are in Eternity entwined, but sharded into the realms of space and time.
They are shards of the divine.
Would composing such a novel be an arduous journey,
Exhausting my body and above all my core?
Would I be as a drowning man,
Gasping for breath,
Kicking and screaming while with futility grasping for shore?
But would every paragraph and page exhaust me,
Yet also leave me yearning for more?
It would I am sure.
This arduous compulsion will also uplift and invigorate me with waves of catharsis and frisson.
And I pray dearly for the same in my reader,
of soul-piercing joy.
If I fail to evoke the same in my audience then I would have failed to breach the ramparts and the gates shielding my innermost chamber,
Our collective soul.
Only within this innermost shared sanctum can I truly touch someone's soul.
And by touching one, I will be touching them all.

Slowly the shadow approaches the Glen.
Wrapping lilies in its arthritic hands.
A hush falling upon those in his wake.

Frost encrusts the grass lost beneath your feet.
A songbird falls from the sky, lost in ash.
The sun is silent, and all time stands still.

The scene fades into shadowed nothingness.
The night is calm, the day is cold. Alas.

a fog descends, encroaching the mind
wisps lost into the haze: minimal visibility ensured
a strength without direction, meandering through forest
ice encrusts logic; hail bombards reason
i am left

solely with agony
bliss ignorance into incompetence
sheeps alone in a storm
awaiting some dog to provide direction
i ponder: why wait for consensus
if no-one cares to agree and ascend

infant in the sea
paled by the raging white surf
his belly swells with foam, stretched
and his cobalt tongue lolls
like the short haired dogs
on the haitian coast
he has kissed the sands of the deep
with his vapid cheeks
salt encrusts his veins
still running wet
with neptune's tears
he
floats,
cold
beneath the waning of artemis
he is bearded by a mother's grief
who has lost her
infant in the sea