Month: April 2015

a profile of ourselves comes alive
inside the photograph painted poem
that can shift focus, pull out, draw in
to the blend of shade; the touch
of our breathing texture,
let all the sunlight in
to fractal into blur
sense’s emotion
fist an impression
on the still sequence
of life’s great escape
the story of a changing story
and all that we may lay waste and forget
is rolled over in scriptures’ corner of canvas.
The dangerous truth of ourselves is our art
The identity of presence stems deep
beneath the myth of the psyche.
The ultimate freedom,
our true birth
is the art
our vermillion
minds spill as dye
to flush veins
that won’t fossilize
themselves; in life
we must try
to unpack the self
of its own truth

cloud of blue mind
you float
in the bobbing bottle
of longing being,
half submerged
in the dark water’s past, amass
in the symmetry of what you see;
the glass echo of hollow whispers
alive in the tunnel
of an imperfect moon,
the dream navel’s
revel
a calm chaos
of nakedness
dappling
in water’s silent
phosphorescence

piece back together
in the cresting mosaic
of lost reflection, the embrace
In which to hold the depth of the sky

devil cat up and boarded a plane,
took flight in the effluvium
caught sometime in the cloud
of our bird’s eye mind

he lit a cigarette; cloud plume
spume fiddles and fills like
his brief case brim spills
loaded pills, that the skychains
don’t even want to claim again

Giants swat above the city steeps
great minds pick at the picnic of his

one for every day
in his week

sometimes, when they come
to see him, he picks them apart
like toy trains in his playground
of infinite infantile thought
kaleidoscopes

each one the same
each one the same
until they believe it

sometimes, when they come
to see him, their flailing arms silence
in their regression onto him

how many fall in the simmer
haze of refraction in reflection?

all about devil cat they lay
wandering over themselves
in the suspended heat of his despair

“It must be the effluvium
caught in the clouds” they say
but they know he is up there
and will never come down

such is the law of the gravity
they created in weighing him

The old crust veneer of the gilding to this life

spills through the crack in time’s leaking vessel

–
Undone in the mangrove whirl of shadow imagination,
–

our lust; the last leaf, dried between the weight of words

forms the silence of the tomb, of an unopened book’s eternal verse

and climbs the mast of our blind balance of body

our star stuck resin, the amber sap of inured self

and seals inside the melt of the lunar gap

along the sky layered in lapse

—

to harness the open map of mind, the un-constellated white

satin braille of the sailing stars, against the backlight of night,

where you will find me a moonchild, on a honey scar crescent

–

gathering glowing pebbles of my first words

in the scratch and claw of my true birth