Cumulous figment of joy
the art of white eyes
I sense a bird stretching experience
colonizing an empty nest of laughter
my tongue is ripe with twilight
savoring the underbelly of clouds
their pink veins of magic
the iris coils on expanses of clarity
carmine volumes of essence.
Is there a possibility
of ache and wonder
some knowledge
of cave and cadence
has man
any recognition
of the dream
in the edifice
of infinity
the sun
is drowning
in red essence
everything
sleeps
like a butterfly
in flight
lucid
shapeless
earth.
a found a mystic’s cloud
today
strange stream surfacing
motion maneuvering mirthfully
a found the tree under the shadow
objects reposing, the light untouched
today was so short
a flicker
as a beautiful face
turning the corner
never to be seen again
empty sand
in my hand
again
but at least
these shoes of ache
brushed by
the mystic’s lake
today.
I have chosen an exit
my finger is already in the sky
drawing up the clouds
they are dead with time
my music is blood running wild
I transient leap back and forth
the speed of pregnant vision
why is now a candied sound in my mouth
dissolving as a tongue of vapor
I laughed and cried
the tears come from above
they will plunge hard into the soil
of my mad domain.
Born
as
limb
annexed
to
p r o c e s s
my life
a finger
fiddling with
crystals of perception
the experience
alone
a purposeless
flight
truth… ?
simple,
the unwritten
manifesto
of the sky
death comes
I am one more wave crashing
swelling and then
absorbed back
into
formless
immanence
disappearing once more
into fire.
With a weightless sky in my eye
I drown in arabesque
can I blame the world
for appearing to be so real?
while walking in silence
I observed the solidity
the light calmly on the mundane;
something unfolding I called it wholeness
occult like a spirit
clever and persistent
behind the visible path that I take,
locality and image
are still my playthings
and yet something calls
like a spell to jump
into the final
unknown.
What I ask of you
is to invent a reason
something of a shade
like a morsel of labyrinth,
to shed a tear
like a long branch of truth,
a solitude that has the figure
of a stranger followed by smoke,
something that I need is so elemental
like the way you tear away the wings
faithless in the heights,
what I ask is for you to turn around
bright, tangible and ancient
peeling naked our sense,
it is not hope that I seek
but in infallible squalor
to touch your name.
it was history
excoriating those
words
their skin of wood and soft metal
it is war
that has arrested the direction
of the winds
it began when red mouths
served as riverbed
to a stone law
it was in a dark month
that a saint
stretched the shadow of the spirit
it is your strange voice
that coils an audible mystery
round all the things
that are yet to come.
I begin
to
approach
you
with a scarcity
of words
a simple
symbol:
snow
contains
the entire mode
of your
being.
because the wind grows my nails
I sit this evening
on the ledge of an ancient
mystery
the rain is the dream of the present
the noise of rock
of my bones –
penumbra is the rejoining of fragments
in this quiet atmosphere
speech is green grass returning
to the distant seed
because the wind has fed from
these thoughts of dimension
I am bottom
of the
pendulum life
Modern Poetry
Beyond Language 
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