These things possible to have been said
ive uncurled in a swallowed sound
as I am of you and slightly the other
my name follows the shadow of yours
catches shade in a valley of bees

we are meant to move forward without assistance
but lacking little light i turn and hide

you have worn many names and faces, sir
to say you are undisciplined is a love of lies
your expectation wavers with the sky turning
what they all worked hard for stops

night mountains, a sharp silence

no longer a child
orphan, stoic, doctor, sir

firstborn
first abroad
first lost

as a child, he spoke as a child

abba
aboji

distance is relative, hinged
joints bend where other spaces would break
forced into a posture
object
stars move slowly across the face

this is now something recognized on a screen

I am to say
who was but until the present never could be

I see and hear everything
I see and hear you

speak as simply as you can
without fire these words nearly sleep
the distance between

a shade platform
a hindered announcement
faces fanning in the heat

louder than the eyes having it
louder than the deer giving up its secrets on the tree

quietly we crawl under our covers
the house stands still after hours of unrest
delicate as folding screens these turns burn our faces

we will hear and we will see but we will not speak

broad light of day is a hard release
dark ambient mover
destiny holds swirling gates ajar
swallowed in the thousand flight
sun walkers collecting miracle sound engines a storm

lacking necessary endings
mystery transforms night into illusion
familiar object outland delivers

sight objects unearthing sound


na
nabi
nun
white
what lies


lost as a child
I spoke
sighted in the scrim and flash...
I sway

You stand on the front walk
of an almost forgotten house
a leaf that will not open
Reach out to me now
through the torn veil of language

love child
retracing the steps to an intersection without a stop sign, waiting.
hidden fated past in the face the mirror casts, history likes to repeat itself.
back on the block to remember names and connections.
distances away, i remember gaps. arriving in a black cloud of delay and
indifference; the smoke clears.
family makes me resemble the redemption of their last memory.
history is made up of someones memories and people remember what they want.
the lines of life whine in their strife while the heart creates an oasis
of old things, collected for rainy days and memory haze.
I knew myself before I spoke of the good times. the disconnected chords of
past didnt prevent a present from becoming a past.
whether its memoir or lineage, the old days are mysterious
occurrences that evolve into a sense of completion for my missing reason.
what follows me is the perpetual light of my shadow.
I come out like an essence, sometimes a simile of what others remember in others before me;
some sense of familiarity carries on the memories that comfort whats forgotten to
take me into the next moment and so on.
birth alone isnt a part of me, but its the extension of the tree,
I have never seen, will always search for; that's life.
I find myself here and wonder how much do I
need to know in order to know why and does it matter. my
destination isnt known, but the
fare is due, what is it to you?

Is his life the tune of his human hands quiver
as they play out rhythms at his shoulders
in a refrain that comes to nothing more
than drumming of nervous architecture
to the straight on stare of strangers and friends
which mixes the past with what now comes myth
in a man that is buried from within
by the loss decreed sanctimonious...?
The very tremble of his hands excused
in order to show his capacity
to feel beyond the blur of his present.
For continuum weighs sympathy. There
is not sin in the baring of these days
that can calm this man to strains of humanfold

Some time when the river is ice ask me of what mistakes I have made.
Ask me whether what I have done is my life...or to be...

i.
Heading south people change and it seems, by degrees
imperceptible over decades. In this place
the small 'i' looks into flight theory
for a bird out of season. Life as a rule
consists of evidence, the gentle breeze
or the gale force, it leans on faith
towards chance with the family,
the friends & the lovers you take
a shine to. A belief that obscene amounts
of change alarms, if the people
you love will change with you.
But the saddest day is the one
where you find youve changed too
much and us not nearly enough.

ii.
Wing stretches the log fire burns, all through
a sleepless stretch of evening.
The small 'i' re-working words
is hemp loose, as ideas fall
with the passions onto paper.
At 4 a.m. body exhausted, walking
outside smoking another.
Plumes tickle and rise in the head,
drift from the hand and the mouth.
Theres a mounting chipper of birds all
about, they rustle and stir in the bush
behind. Drawn closer, no doubt
by the sweet stench that floats
thick, in Kanimblas subzero air.

iii.
Air spirals as its the vertigo and the wind
that gets me, holds me reticent
just one step away from the edge.
From the top of this plateau,
its a sheer drop into silence and
the cavernous mystery beneath.
The valley is fluted in layers of mist,
a scene stealer for the tourist and
the small 'i' alone on the stone
ledge of so vast an expanse.
Catching wits and breath,
I recall a friend having said that
a mountaineer once
saw god on K2s summit.

iv.
Weightless flight theres experience in that possibility,
in that solitary view of the infinite.
Precipitation clears from the valley
as birds and bird song wing
through the sunfiltered clouds.
And just beyond the falls
two iridescent rainbows form
the perfect tricolour arcs.
The sky is winter blue and enormous.
The small 'i' subdued, watches day
pass and the sun shine on the valley.
Considers how easy the choice
to take one step out and glide
weightless on air currents.

v.
Tail feathers and vegetation grow lush all the way
down through the pathway.
The legs winds the slim web of road
until it flattens out into brush country.
Horses graze close to the Tea Rooms
where theres hot food and a fire.
This valley less up close
less imposing than the view
from the top plateau suggests.
On the way back up echoes
of parrots and lyre.
The weather ominous as feathers
float with the snowfall when birds
lift from the trees and are gone.


vi.
Skyways in the old adobe home fire
warms flesh while the heart
beats slow and the small 'i' wonders
'where exactly in this anatomy
do wings fit?' In the cerebellum,
which itself feels nothing
synapses spark and push
memorys sharp edges
into tissue of the heart
or the head with no reply.
It makes no difference, what
the small 'i' decides - as just
because they can, birds will
stretch out their wings and fly.

what can
unsteady a person
bring her falling
into the deepest sky?
she swims
inside dreaming
lets go
of possibility
makes dizzy the first
bone-dry second
then blueness…



*



her eyes let go
of every surface
resemble
every weather
she is everywhere
arms floating in blue

We will change the music for you. It will look like a field of buttercups, and sound like dinnertime.

a six-inch patch of life redemption

Si lo que has encontrado
Fue formado por materia pura
Nunca se pudrirá
Y tu puedes volver un día
Si fue solo un momento de luz
Como la explosión de una estrella
No encontraras nada cuando regreses
Pero habrás visto una explosión de luz.
Y esto solo ya habrá valido la pena
PC

A huluppa tree had been planted on the banks of the Euphrates
which is okay if you understand botany, distant locations
or even the prehistoric culture of dress codes because Gilgamesh
only wore animal skins which makes him sound eccentric
the way the flesh of the gods resided in his body and his face
was the face of one long journey followed by another.
It wasnt simple like tripping or waiting for the next day when he
could decipher unintelligible dreams. They had to have esoteric
meaning but all Gilgamesh would say was we must treasure
our dreams whatever the terror. He never mentioned what frightened
him or if he suffered nightmares as a child, waking in a cold
clammy bed which is understandable if his insides writhed with gods
lending delusional wings otherwise his wife would never
have had to say I need to touch this man to wake him.

I tremble beneath
frilly- Four fingers
in- Others entering
through- An excuse
for constant-
new york quarterly

there might be dedications determined by the disciplined music of a thousand looms but what kind of day means another melodious shift...? ive been training my left arm to glimmer and am already accustomed to the heat of the forge....yet as for flames i head in all directions of yellow turning orange turning away...my gaze...and the watery foundations.
but love, if you were a globe, i could place a finger and match equator to longitude, then gather the topography into a fistful of embers. you might have brought the other motion with you, maybe you did draw three broad Xs across our earth. and i might have touched fingertip to fingertip, climbed the hill and surprised the city...but
alkali junction exists now in that field of our core.

Language is the place of the mind
as Space is the place of the body.

Hair dripping, as it were, south, while the ice-blue
neon of your mouth hisses letters through the rain.

To speak is to desire. So the gods judge.

The heart, an organ of fire. my fruit.
The soul, nail-bed as my gift.

You, ocean curved
exhale—as Im the wavewashed
shell at your throat
You remember as...
well...
as sand

And yes...you loosen my knees cartilage
and yes...
I swirl in the whorl of your fingertips
and no...
I want to swallow whole your scallopladen hair
your whole pink carnations
I want to slide
my breathy self home

Ive forgotten how to say what I need in the language of my mother's mother's mother.

Wait...Touch my tongue. And
yes, touch my tongue. And no, touch the small
of my back. Lovely one.

Between the sheets
Seaweed and Doorways
You shed
We gasp
our breaths
brim.
Listen,
the tracks we lay
across each others skin
cut summer grass, evaporating
salt, driftwood...
once again...
as sand

Discuss: pebbles and sand castles.

The difference is
closing the space between
our bodies

but...

Love,
the back of your
mouth is visible and it is as delicate
as mushrooms, caves,
or even moths that come out
at night after painting sugar
on tree bark, feathery,
blanched and translucent
from flashlights

Had I
a hundred tongues yours
would be the kindest and
most radiant: the last
time I saw anything shine so blue....

fathers , dresses , gods



what do you wish for?

the heart leaps the heart opens the heart
closes the heart grieves

it becomes it sinks
into your palm it believes

I have seen you with my tongues mouth flower

acacia blossoms in the time of three
foot snow this mild
spring winter

when I dream men it is always you
no longer

does it mean Ill wake
up making poppies in a crush of white
its pure...

us loving in our barely there
adult twin bodies blue and dark

delight in our delight
buds blazing
but when I dream of women it is always I

delighting to delight

i wonder if im losing who i am with each word i speak as another one known as her

No me juzguen si me gusta el vino
si me gusta el fuego
cuando está despierto

No me juzguen porque duermo
con una lechuza
y la ventana
de par en par
abierta.
No se preocupen si un día
voy de viaje
dentro de mi misma—
granos de arroz
me traerán de vuelta.

Y no me juzguen
si amanezeco
despacio
despedirme de suennos
toma mucho tiempo.

Are the flowers youve brought to the surface to wake me, are they heavenly flowers, are they an excess of petals, oblivious turn to abundance, the ground of the flower.

Is the aspect of sweetness compressed into sea-water breath, as one would bring air to the surface, my shoulders are wet, if this were a pool...

Would I feel a flower so similar to aberrations of color descending to roses, as I would so love to be changed from my likeness to what would parallel our equity.

His kiss is just a whisper passed through the salvos juxtaposed with sacredness albeit sans configuro repealants morphity ping prongless saturelment acre-ease my chinstrap en route to grass courts, my glass skirt challenging the light of gravitys hospitable brick fossil path.

Play the oceanic form of cradle in amazed left-justified machine inclusive of slip covers and Jurassic lullabilia. So many prose glyphs numen their way sofaward. Until collaborative safety moans into unwanted facial hair of someone salty in the month of Junes apres-midi continually lurking east of nest points in the fois gras of contagious dithers who becomes important to have touched within the tone row bylines of an apple aimed at teachers desktops scattered through the temporary building.

The earth is yours & everything thats in it.

I have learned to piece scraps from whatever washes ashore to build driftwood and rocks into intricate gardens. There are times i cry out and sink roots although keeping my eyes close i am pragmatic and adept sacrificing that which rubs to snip away tangled love knots where new growth can flourish stretching from old scars I am surprised by the volunteer who suddenly appeared disrupting my orderly planting bed blooming his heart out.

Deepness is a metaphor belonging to those who beckon all they seek into the vicinity of the imagination. A flower from the theatre. A passionate rural howl. Controversy with style. Ignorance of sleep as if being awake had somehow more virtue. In reality, there are those who see the deep and the shallow as part of the same view. Landscape is perspective. And vice versa. Insight has your dimensions.

words vanish on water
fine polished stones in the palms of a great magician

have you forgotten how to call forth...?

the wind is vast yet concise
it shifts the current sideways
picks up just enough sand to thinly blanket my eyes
& plays with the feathers of birds
like a teasing older beloved

only the clouds remain unmoved

a white gardenia in a blue breeze floats by
my love sleeps powdered sweetly on a sheet
a cascading youth nuzzles at my heart
kisses my navel disguising desires

people litter the shore
too many for the waves to carry
too lost & shameless to burrow beneath the sand as crabs
too large to fit into the mouths of gulls

they have forgotten how to know themselves

the magnified light of the sun
burns a hole in my chest
whole chest
where once a smooth polished stone lay -
now disappeared

like words
beneath
the ocean floor

With the clouding factor of being here
in this brilliant light opposite being with you
the blue bouncing as love gone crazy around
the room I stand on the scales at sea level
with all the gravity I can muster divide by ten
and multiply by seven to approximate my liquidity
that was once and will always be pure cloud I read as
thirtysix litres of cloud potential thirtysix
litres of ebullient cumulous rising lapping
through the water cycles I will be nimbus,
stratus, cirrus, altos, storm and ice. Sooner
or later you and me we'll mix we'll rise
condense as one, travel and rain apart
our water content more permanent than the DNA
that imprints face bones codes
for muscle to tilt the head that might revert
to thinking about clouds that needs a body
to bear it. Little squirls of me unwinding helices
of us subsets swimming to extinction
while our enduring water returning cloud
shaped will outlast all organic parts of us

Conjured spoken there is when this place is a blaze
The arc of the dancer speaks to the remembering one
With you there is open visibility to the wind
There is no justice if there cant be peace
& there is always peace
The wind it speaks in triangles
Speaks in circles and squares
In the wind there is a presence of dark & the light of Ma
Of war of justice of peace
In the wind there are the particles of life
That make up the particles of breath
Of death of green and blue & spirit & fruit & moon
Of trail & entrails of trials of holocaust & ceremony
Of silence between the silences of noise within the noise

In the Wind there is a presence
An unseen force that unites us to the earth
An unheard force that unites us to the trees
An unforced presence that unites us to the clouds

In the mouth there is the understanding of tongues
A pastoral untangling
In my breath there is the wind that binds us to the sky
That brings us toward the storm
That wraps us in its eye
That levels us to the ground
& makes us beholden
& humbled
& held in its presence

in the wind there is darkness & light

& particles of man and beast and breath and death and justice and joy

The great mystery
Jaya sleeps inside me
My identity becomes a web of cherry blossoms
Sing oh sound oh speculation
Sing oh nights untiring tune

Its when the one without the hop becomes an outsider
The one without the vision is crazy
Its when the one without guidance is no longer a communicator
When the one who hears clear is called blind
Its when those who exist in everything are considered the simple
And those who run far are simply blossoming
Its when then that we know we all know
Its then that we know we must change

We all feel together that the healing has begun
We all feel together that the this can be overcome
We begin to feel what this is all about
This phenomenal this the place that we come from

Jaya still sleeps inside me

There is this box called paradise with one bright star locked deep within it
There is the labyrinthine skyline zigzagged w/lines of entangled sky
There is this dark light this cold burning sunset
All these who wanna be interlaced
All these mornings elaborate within a pound of grey matter
And this yawning spider sings to turn away

In the wind there is a presence a knowledge to deep to be spoken
Magic and even in my dreams clouds that have every reason
We are our reason
It is not the first time dream catcher

You can spend a lifetime in riding the waves
Spend moments here and feel like youre at home

The wind winds thru me picking up pieces of us and joining us to all others
The moon shifts inside me spoken onward and I understand
The wind picks up the moon one too many mornings I fell
Old scra only as the circle
is where the line will be drawn
when with the dusk
we meet the dawn

do fish sing?
connection of bone to flesh
Rejoicing the music
connection of bone to flesh

in the wind there is a presence roots paths owl eyes

tasting and smelling and hearing and seeing

this is talk of equality...as i follow winding you say hello

Mysteries cannot be proven is love truly enough?
Magic is not localized
Language is not singular

Jaya sleeps inside me In the wind
There is a presence sheltered by every human, every someday, every lily or elephant / do fish sing?

Do fish sing?
Connection of bone to flesh

The oldest tree
Laughed when I asked
Shake with it
Sing to it
With it
You are a very old tree
A rain travels through you
Low cold high heat a wind
The effect of the sacred upon the sacred

We are the receivers
Thru us the total is realized & released
We are the channels
We teach each other and ourselves
We learn from all

Remembering jaya sleeps inside me &
I can speak to something other than the moon

The wind in the wind there is a presence
I go blindly into the wind

The sky is blue concrete
We arrive whole bodies into the prism
Embodied within the origin
Turning into mirrors of water
Facing a lavishing sun
Man
Created within the abundance of colors
Though nothing is without color
Like nothingness itself
In glorious gold & silver
We rejoice in the hands

A connection of flesh to bone

He realized he was his body
And that his body carried him
He realized he was his body
And his body was carried by him
These are created
By the candles in the dark
When the colors show on
a passing afternoon

Freedom jaya sleeps inside me
I plunge into myself and awaken heaven

I dare to believe
light LIGHT
As I am
I am light
We arrive in the light whole bodies
Angels arrive by the river
A river of angels arrive
Light I will always be light
As for in the wind there is a presence
Sleeping soundly inside me
As we all dream of this light

I dream amongst the blues & pinks the earth-encrusted browns & pale yellows
I live in light every day
There is never an absence of light
Never an absence of darkness either
Do not be misled by the moon
Do not be misled by your reflection
Who do you see in the mirror?
Who do you greet today?

Color is a glass eye an eye in a glass in a wooden box a black box with a star in it
Color is tea for two a universal magic an apple as it ripens
An incandescent voyeur a decadent drunk
A gentleman a woman of circumstance a space between the bars
The seasons blending into each other
In the wind there is a presence
A spectrum
A soul
Where sand turns to glass
A color that sings of its birthright
As the connection of truth or question

In facing
the face faces us
we see light and
in light a sea
of particulars a face
we see bodies forth
open and opaque
it calls us
ourselves

we forego
in the realm of
sensuous there is not
a first experience of
ego its image apogee

every face his face
only I see he
defys his pleasure
he alarms he divides
he can neither partake
nor participate

My response
resound with redundancy
In facing the face
pain in your pain
forego ego Be
a - cross threshold
Echo Be Echo

What I will give you
since you asked
lilies wild
midst seas of grass
shining lights all your days
This is what
I give,
what I ask of you
is nothing
I am blessed
by the smallest...
of lifes attentions.

Ring
Hugged gravity of the gibbous
this perfect circle a chipped white plate
its center pale reached the compass leg
enscribing silvery thought red to violet
surrounding bow. How is the world
broken turning in stillness not our moon?

Rising
So large...the tide roiling the sea-wound
and broil like a dream afraid our moon
near. A pale basket being hauled
into the sky beginning a separation
the amazed heart swelling a redness
failing in the west our breath caught up.

Full
What I carry with me from the North
fallen into a glittering field
of sea the waters many small instincts
the timid openings of memory.
Whatever I was, whoever you
are, dolor of luna origins
all around us this stripping off this
pallor as we step out of our names...

adamant and beautiful
with worlds sleeping in our palm
playing in the dark changing into a game
of the day disclosing circle
i fall asleep and wake up
in a land where above
citrus fruit haze rises up the spiral
acceptance of inhaling and exhaling
by the vast water with its mystic bounce
and Im filling up...with every moment
i grasp more and more space
and life in it
throwing the dice i belong
i have love for the same reason
that you are in every raindrop
washing away and rousing silence
in our eyes where several suns are holding
one another with no arms...there...and here
playing in the dark turning into a festival of the light
with you...(always)...with a single breath
as its center.

The space between
the inhale and the
exhale is not so much

a pause as it is a Link

a
thread
between

what has been
and
what will be

and that is where
you reside in me

i coalesce
with ease
from breath
to breathing

its sheen
fixes krsna
to speech: a
man can

elevate himself
by his
own mind,
breath to

breathe and
knowing.
benign then
motive

bloods run
thudding
thick & thin
in the waters

deliverance
loves
and
creation

what we shall say
is that,
under sense,
they

cut through the
storms
slipping
clean, away

to the divine
numbering
one to nine
allowing you

to believe
with uniqueness
the way
I remain

A held breath
begins the poem
of our making

and unmaking-nights drifting
between many days. The sea
was calm, its music impossibly

translated. Flames
curl like waves, or was it
that these waves
curl like flames?


*

Travel homeward
seemed to
dream, such a
foreign affair
made no
grace of
misgiving. When
the door
with its
beautiful narrator
shook her head
then proceeded
"Our
other
selves, being similar
but
away,
remain
awake to
the sparks,"
united, then untied.


*

Hello again but in reverse
to the far-flung alarm
of stars through a window.

This sleep whose disheveled night
untunes your island, Shalom.

Silver eyes and hair and
the roaring heavens your definitions of water
pretermit.


*

Impossibly-translated water, I disappear:

Water impossibly translated as "the path
that leads away from itself." What the knight saw
could be implausibly translated as "I study,
I make out your face through my stare."

Even the most imperfectly rendered water
flows downward, widening, wearing away its ground
in the free.


*

Unless patterns pursue themselves like waves,
unless patterns…unless they
pursue themselves….unless
waves…well
sea-light will not be cajoled,

into sufficient distraction
except on condition you explain realism under the temples:
offering to water
wilderness of water
rivers fluctuating in quarter tones
reservoir to be read as temporary relief

and the same assuming your place in the book
of perpetually seeking flow.


*

He eyes her eyes,
starminded.


*

Sleeping ends by melting
itself into dizzy eye-journeys
arousing a seal, light to light.

Begin
comparing abstracts
on pleasure, passing birds
from hand to hand.


*

What one dreams
the other describes:
a mirrored water,
unmade breath.

Mischievous weather
weve been having,
Abounding distances

impossibly translated
on this drier tongue
as the capitol of Mists.

At dusk I can see myself alive
In your pupils
Floating inside the blue bands
The little piece of sky you keep hidden
As I take in your skin...Your neck
Smells like the dew on blossoms
and as You carry the ambers of India
Under my covers
I unravel into a thousand honest pieces
Watching you come toward me
because Your nights climb my spine
and This bed is too big
For the rope that we wind into

My favourite memory of us
is of that day we had woven each others hair,
standing in the waterfall
of the nevermore, that moment sweet
succulent as fruit, complete as
a circle, the prowl of knowledge beneath
it bitter and delicate as the powder
on a butterfly wing, powerful
as a secret.

Do you remember what I had
said to you, soon before? How could
I not love you? How could I
not? We had just met. You had
a birthmark the shape of Africa
on your chest; you never knew this,
as my heart had a void in its vocabulary
just the size of your name.
Love is so small.
It could fit into the hole in a bead, the eye
of a needle, and still not seal it.

So I will continue to
wrap my secrets in skin and
hug them close,

imagine drawing out parabolas
of steel and silk from the centre
of my palm to the
centre of yours, like bridges,

delicate, taut
as the webbing
on a bats wing,

and Wait for you to reach
across the distance and pick
the pieces up, so precise
I could almost taste those
kisses

slippery as our love. Almost
forget how imprecise to desire bringing
shape to a love like water–
profound, perfect, universal.

This is the Master of heaven, who is like unto Venus and the
moon, and this is the house of Love, which is without bound and
end.

Rumi

sculpture
moon
abyss

sun
bird
star

strangers in a hidden world

I see two blue dragonflies hovering, end
to end, above a pond, as if twisting
the iridescence deep into each other's
body, abdomens writing, spiraling

into the wing-beaten air. And your voice
comes back to me through the trees, this word
for what we couldn't help but do
to each other -- a thin sigh, unwinding.

Love means you breathe in two countries

what if you were able
to know what I have felt
when powered by the way
we are made
I have felt all of my body
its excess and its strength
thrive up to the creation of my middle
spine steepling to bring me closer
to the speed of native energy
to share that
with you
would be a divine relation

It may have been Lyon we met in
or som odar city north enough
to dim at midday when a cloud
lay over

I had said one word and
you were of mi mind to be
come summer latening time with me
how we went

or wound up on an
arizona mountain I did not
have to know when I woke to your
trim expose

we were already
quenched it seemed but you fed me choc-
olate with love and let me use
your teeth for ball

I did not
dare to plan or yet
even though this was mine
and we had arrived
eye to eye

you were off alone to
climb the mountains which i did not deso-
late nor did I wonder why I
only watched through the windows

you carried an
animal in your arms
but what mattered most was to
drive to the top

an surprise the moons
or...not in that we had
agreed without a word I would say
what I meant was

a love too good to be
talkative we could trust in to
lengthen a moment beyond known reach
I started
up to where I would
meet you

have not reached it yet but I
know who you were and you know as i would like to be

Oxygen feeds a flame.

So I invite you to breathe down my neck.

Your heart is flying, he said
his weight against her chest
It does that, she said
drawing him in

Last night I could hear mi divine being called
and i awoke unbounded finally free
allowing of nuestro cielo
calling out to me

Remembering libre a
etherealize as to call each others names
into another strange land
in the hopes of this strength
blossoming into roots...

Remembering asilo
the roots so deep
sustain not the thorny leaves, surely
but what lights underneath
a reason to put our hands
deeper into each

Remembering siempre
I will always prefer to travel
the long way home
so that beauty will be an island
sung from el alma del m a usted

Remembering pureza
I will sing escatimando
what is holy is circular
what is holy bends
what is holy,
is kind

Remembering InI
The eagle has flown
the stars are out
luminoso sabio
i can hear the voice
i can hear the seas

Remembering InI
If you cant find me
Search the skies
I am empty
I am complete

moving over forest gold
i wish you were an owl
gliding slowly into the night
to see you pass the big silver moon
and watch as your wings
swim the current
of our interlaced soul

do you prefer the deep rise of natural evening
to ride the current of the earth
as if inertia the steam of its own propelling?
do you too possess that boundless energy?
energy of what? of affinity! of pestilence!
...it is unavoidable...
i am both

so...tell me
tell me so...
what do you hear when the sun comes descending
when the rain stops...and starts...and stops again?
I know you hear afar this
silence
I know your feet dont understand our
stillness

I think what we need now is to learn how to stand next to the fire
while oustide the children can giddy-up in piles of sun-shine
pretty as pitter & putter being thwarted from my path
but desire, as you get in the way of this
you sharpen my senses like an aged noctiluca in the lambent.

and I am frail against your power but
I could shatter you against the wind
clop you knowing things will eventually make sense
had I the tools
and the daring energy
had I eternity to complete the task
and a brigade of soldiers to lift me each time I fell.

Love, your fire is not in the form of beloved ones, those dynasty creators,
or blue eyes that bring simple companionship and laughter
Your fire is the unannounced lover
that leaves in my skin the imprint of desire
that does not know how to go on staying in peace
that slowly inflames my life.

A bandit, you watch the bed of passion all night
and flee with new eyeballs once trust has been given
Embezzler of harmony, instiller of aflutter venom:
desire, let me be...

Leave me to the songs I have always been singing
for they are songs
that do not whimper
when the last note
is sung:
Leave me the songs that do not fear their own ending
and can therefore
be belted
as if despair
has never won.

I captured his appetite
tasted it

and regardless of his
demands

I wont give it back
until we are full

levitate over the torso
induce the confusion like
asphyxiate
reciprocate

love for loves sake

conversations get filtered like sand
stare;
study the eyes
dont just look

try to figure out
why im the first one
discovered
at the end of every night

platform of love
I pull myself away from the edge

You dont know me but
we trapeze anyway
tomorrow more
unpredictability & freedom
tomorrow or the next day
or the day after that
all i know is
Today
is an acrobat

i speak once of steeping feet in the seven seas
of illuminating them there to oceanid him
to create sheets of white luminous
so that these bodies will become edible
submerged in effervescent brilliance
make it so and skin turns a new glow
softening as you seep slowly in
as my cells remember i forgive
so that we now immerse ourselves
apathy has nowhere else to sit
it will never requiem he repeats
though he still doesnt know
i often hear the same declaration
reversing in anothers simplicity
to luminescence my light...mirrored
as always breathing in his glare
i find my love transitioning clouds
waist deep in his inane
i gungaroo across blue fields
meandering the world gypsi
straying on the limniads edge
returning some times in time
for a door aching wide in the sky
and the moon setting free
played perfectly
in the neighbours tree
suddenly remembering air
or just how it all could be

Yo sueño que regreso
un día cualquiera
to the pleasure of letting
the earth slip through my fingers
Yo vivo en permanente exilio
when I dream
I can only speak in tongues of desire
when I dream
of stretched bodies as my island
awaiting mi
Yo puedo perderme en las prominencias
de tu cuerpo
in the sugar cane flavor of your tongue
in the dark cinnamon color of your gaze
Yo puedo perderme rozando tus riberas
like a wave
piérdase dentro de usted
Yo sólo sueño que regreso
I can only speak in the tongues of desire
en vuelo
from your body

what is tucked between entangled hair
and the moment somewhat marvelous
is the truth that there is nothing
between us except for us

the light can surely see us
as there is a hum
beating...a glow
but all one hears
is the sea
upon nearby rockiness
and voices
which chorus
through the floating nights
the sky...white
dashing with gleam
the moon melting...
through the horizon
where my vibrant mica star
glints your pearls
blissfully sweet

"...babae, babae!"

“qué pasa?”
“einu sinni enn sólin skín, afturkoma...”
universo de universos,
la lumière luit dans the darkness
en medio del silencio profundo:
“khob, no ké resid bé bâzâr kohné shavad delâzâr” -
en la eternitad…
la luz, no pueden sofocarla,
se para la marea, y no saber adónde vamos…
«róba, pródajeteli ?» «né,dósta»;
et Parcae dixerunt saeculo: mahlip...
iau, atti, attunu, mamma, mala bašû -
esperad todavía

Under the Bo-tree
the Budd-ha-to-be
sought something
beyond opposites,
beyond thought
Talking about it,
even here, in the
holy tabernacle of verse,
is missing it.
Instead of turning away.
In the giving up,
between the giving up
and the engagé
his page will be
our distance
going blank
with all that
you seek.

Wings to divine
in air so cold its edges mark
winter's end and spring's first pulse.
In the poised crystal I fly silhouettes
that fold closed, then open,
now in prayer, now in possibility.

this...universe...just...knows

you are more like wonder
than the sky
gazing over me
descending light everywhere
old waves vanish
beneath your fingers
as they trace my bones
drawing out the woman
who lives under this skin
because learning to fall
is an art
but to arise in the hands
that catch us
teaches one
ascend to awaken...then begin

?...tis dis oan abut mi...?

run << from >> t e <<

c h a n * g o

run >> towards << n w >>

YONIVERSE WISDOM

Consciousness is More Vast than Language
Greater than Your Personality
Love is a Key
To Your Power
And
Your Joy

What shall we two do with a weight of absence evidently skipping & a fashionable assize hung within us like a crystal clear comprehen-sible en-rapturing calling forth question-ing if you are so passionate as you say an as I dare but not believe it so this cannot last as long as velvet in snow with spoors and roots braiding a scarf of sun-light streaming on your neck my own temporaliry a whsssst of livity age-old owl eyes soul silvery at dusk white branches blossoming and withering forth ruines of harmonizing what we create equally plundering limpid luminous how so ever translucid I am in myself I would as soon forget all good an eclipse of here & here in-let as you lay waking in the cotton clouds of the fifteenth evening for I have feet that slip out of shoes ankles that spiral a blue neck a fearful little rebel like the multitude in your kingdom seeking the way ahead where the fire is cold and early deaths have decomposed behind my eyes an tilted mirrors sing forth where birds can rise from the roof of my mouth where it is past repair an stars mix compounding sin as it is invisible it does not kiss the block bumbling it requires a bungling amateurish blundering crispness floundering asking for pulse a practice you can run your hand over the loosened lily neck-lace splintering its thistle spine astonishing how rapture keeps words singing like crickets high even as I overlay illusory awake in every swirling my swishing murmuring there just there it goes whirlwind gone sprawling and gold glistening all its weight lit up to become...slowww

We are pain and what cures pain, both.
We are the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
I want to hold you close like a lute,
so that we can cry out with loving.
Would you rather throw stones at a mirror?
I am your mirror and here are the stones.

Rumi

this = love

I watched you
grow full of suspicions
making guesses weigh more
get too large
A forest of tall-grown illusions
each whispering their own stories.

Lost in the trees
Daphne, too, is not what he seems.
The birds that nest on his branches
never suspect that he
bark-covered
refused the love of a paradise
the love of a god.

You said
I sing you know
Oh, I know you sing
like a bird, I bet
but not for me
not to me
Then you walked away
toward the trees,
sprouting leaves.

Dear ___,
I was seeing from a distance. It stayed small for quite a while. Then volcanoes came. And now
There's a hole in the middle of life. (the body) The flashbacks will remind us. See what the room sees. A collection of cells.
Where as your face was on the rivers coloring;
I was myself, to join what had been separate. To translate without moving; a veneer, a grassy green.
Youve now created me into backwards light. The sound of lilies in my head are like paper hands.
Youve become the stone in my left hand. A kindred mind with mine.
Yet. I still dont who we are, but Two.
The sea also has no idea, having lavished itself on diamonds, repeatedly asking.
Who put us here?
Who put us here with these eyes?
So this morning I looked to the sky. The sky looked down.
The wind whispered silver from the ground
'He is in heaven with his eyes.
And when he was a child you were the rain,
He and absolute were all the clear,
Fragrant spaces and mind among mine'

The birds knew, and the rainbow too. I was looking far too near.

ample make this bed
make this bed with awe

purple & russet silk  
gold flame pattern  
birdwing coat  
scent of sunflower pollen   
myrrh & pale jasmine   
iridescent water weave   
grass green rose dust   
falls loosely over shoulders   
plum leaf: haze, light  
spilling water bowl, a morning   
of skin skimming freshly woven  

A LONG FALL INTO
INTELLIGENCE

in love with

WHITE SEA CLIFF EDGES
PATH THROUGH CYPRESS...WHERE WE'RE HEADED

eyes open

I am walking straight toward you, listening.
Morning hours and delicate words are all I have to reach you.
The small clay figure of a boy
Whose belly is warm with each full moon
The thumbprint sun on this boy who makes me lie down
So that we lie slow and even above where grey is blue
Love remembers our skin & speaks dreams in each room
While in this bright air, a man is awakening
against marble that flares everything white
in the sound of cicadas & wind
The invisible is not hiding.
Appearance is not a hollow shell.
The doves are your doves.
Not emblems. Not hidden.
They are close as the waters clear salt
and where my heart dives no less.

The crushed lava and
coral bed of your
meaning falls between
parted fingers, opening
dusk concealed between
stars. Nine heavens of
Tagaloa circle
above the children of
earth and spirit:
Fatu, the heart, a woman
Ele-ele, the earth, a man

what is the skeins of strains of lie
grafted on the table
what is the tiniest light in your eye
all night and into the next life
a searing vestibule
you are obviously listening
awake

hold it there anatomy
there are holy ideals for the erudite
& anyways im less engaged of space

a perpetual sniffling
sitting next to the Sikh at the gateway
shibuki 2:45am
crumble my walls
hold a carnival in my wake
one mans jaw drops as anothers
flagrant ember clasp
pry ring finger pray pyre of glass pleased
fell from his pocket
& covered the highway stretched
as far as an open mind

ride again, a zeroed in,
a junket river of hidden filigree
river ribbons

quick...get it before he sees

enscribe sunrise afterlight;
my bones
bowed awry
like pebbles
embraced
you.

Are you
sad?
Yes, but not
like that,
she said
and
swam
away.

Enchantment
is a song
the body must remember how to sing.

persistent perennial pleasure in place amongst the peripheral paranormal perfection of predicted preferred predicaments perceived in penetrated personal panoramic peacefulness of parallel passages procrastinating phonetic participation

Moonshine spirit and a glass of night wool
Magic blinking...waiting...Shining in the mirror
Firewater blue...Omid hue
Rush of wind passing over
Inbetween existing
Testing depth...You disappear to immure

I once knew a man with the stars sung onto his soul
Sweeping but sensually darting
Floating below
A gypsy witch...he echoed of where the body has broke

But you can
Cheer up now
Amato
Dont wait too long
Its time to sit on the sun for
My love's another kind

For our gala jubilee I climb the burial mound in the field and build a small fire with last years wood to warm my body through another wandering duskiness. Like teepees, auric sheaves stand where we lulled once under summers deep water. Slowly, the green eyes of silos blink on as the sun arches across the Catalan sky.

The moon climbs out of the field where arrowheads work to the surface sure as memories triggered by a savored aura indulgence, where the heat of my body and yours was enough to unlock the earth, where the wind now swirls the ghosts of forgone beloveds above me like clouds shimmering over the moon.

Tonight, frost halos my body and a long fuse of stars sizzle past moments that will always bind me to you: the doe we hit before we embodied that tried to run with broken legs; the night I found you blue beside me in bed and breathed you back from betrayal; the stripling we have and the growing inside of you. The door that Ive built with my heat stands open revealing twilight.

In my body of skin of moss of clover
I touch fingers to fingers
lips to lips
the exposed tip of the heart

Seed work Sun work Earth work
If pansies are for thoughts
I pick them early in the morning so they last

The moon sings the mountain down to the sea
as the sun wraps itself around the horizon

Air runs like a hand lightly across my body
Voices pirouette like echoes in a braid of flowing tongues

We trace the flicker of dragonflies skimming the water
their imprint light as ash

We hold fruit with its sweet flesh
dream of seeds, silky membrane
fitting the palm perfectly

It is time to Kiss the Earth
count freshly painted stars
running ocean
Here where there is only stillness



and Love, I wish upon you this ecstacy

The lotus moon still blooming
as we exchange liquid looks
dark as antique honey

Time, calm and airy
waking up unveiled in the garden
and rising in love again
easily...so easily

your lips are missing the story

Recite a large print love aria
into my lower back

Seek out my amiable arch
appearing in the dropped-beauty of the rooftop

Like a dragon it radiates flame


I applaud you as a founder passing...between

skin curls tighter in whirls of fingered identity seity - what’s begun with convergence is ending with time creating lightening in a crystal glassed course for defection making this abnormal as the home of curiosity sends its tricks writ with extended hands on a sloping belly then under to feel nothing more than mind over matter cleaned out like siroccos to besprinkle hidden worlds unveiled
pieces trip over themselves and metal is flying with sparks - select which time is worth giving when one is too small to breathe keeping what is unable to die not yet alive in ambiguity meaning siding with the unknown is an unwilling chance best to change your dream before the song falls into traces
keep one wrapped in elastic holes to breathe and shutter stripped - this body a greenhouse concocted to sustain something other so self will never again open of its own accord and becomes memory displayed in concrete and absence or a worth to be measured in possibilities and abstracts
interlock tangle of threads ask how strong the silence is in black and white if a model of flesh turned thickened spurns more tepid notion than finger pressed fabric faded into particles and pollen teased petals over grey if hands form image of image but this truth is never free for view
what if landscape must be discovered without remembering the time before we noticed what is outside is no longer a piece of what is in the way of our gazing

and tell me then what to make
of the candle flickering, drilled into the glacier
which will then expire
while he respires...still although
and assures that what is is
and what is not is (anyhow, what the hell)

. . . al hezzaz catches al hamama
. . . al khiate satisfies al taleb
. . . an naasse surprises al mokabeul
. . . az zoddame meets al zeunbar

I cradle your world…
which I could never touch...

you can bring back a constellation
in different light––
reveal a moment when each
object’s voice will be clear.

but when you trace the photo
of the spiral galaxy, tiny
limestone crystals in your
ear will be pulled by gravity,
the motion of my hair.

he would have said the habit lives in colors. the strained words have taken away their meanings. the low sea is rising to the windows of our careless longing palace caves.
but he could not speak from a tongue no longer muscled by thought. deserted by language and by the sky of mirror traced. its moths and fingers combined. that the light...it entered through the back of his eyes.
he would have said I am the only speaker of my body. but the three strung vines of him were not listening. they heard the fleeing that is both temporal and eternal. they heard the sea.
breaking all form.
rising elegantly.
a wingless bird to its depths.

how deeply is this felt? (it is possible to air impression as much as him and still find it divinely softened to abide than he does.) but that it is impossible to imagine...makes the castle-building reverie so vivid and terrifying.

In this scene trees crawl like spiders to catch the wind, snow perplexes a blue sky while branches shake from the weight of it your sense of direction flips into the once puzzling provincialism to exhibit resonanting partially and they only partially cover their mistakes by swimming even more seductively toward you you become the subtlest of superfluous as your daily thought and feeling grow fleeting and infinite self-perpetuating and impossibly more resilient. ready to alight on steepled sand in lamplight. even though you live by the sea you no longer dream of fragile roads on islands of mythical syntaxes. you still climb two sets of stairs but have blurred them. if anything goes amiss you resort to the simple design of standing in bright light unthreading far flung peninsulas until the letters run from your skin.
Sometimes they feel like separate grains of sand of clouds pulled to earth sifting to the center blending peacefully finally in their own relation while along some horizons light shines from distant dreamed hills along others this or that mythic shell complicit with their desire thinks to wear a mask soaked in the rays of their eyes of scattering uncanny fingerprints to smooth skirmishes clearing the way for a more or less ruthless actual history of misunderstanding grounds that climb upward with the smoke from the result of an instant sending signals how a new story and its recipient bend each others bodies off the ground outside the book bathed in blind light and love new hands at all hours pages turning at all hours upending your whisper rhythmic and turning forth behind breeze in ear on throat an unworked mass of puddled iron and adonis particles bent back slowly like a sapling filled heavy with faith kneeling only where faces sketched find comfort in the wall that unhinges impassioned where wisdom stirs and you can surrender curled like the trees or you can crumble the fire...glittering...nowhere.

morning loves brutally removed lovers
and we are
brutally
removed

tepori, gli uni agli altri,
vedette, sempre visitanti,
quiete non resta mai,
mano che non avvolge,
lacera, accartoccia,
torce la pelle, un livido,
e ne fa stemma, stigma,
un accadere muto, trafelato,
un rapido interrompere.
vuoi che si assordi, che rimanga?

It will be a glorious day
when you melt into the earth

Mujer de mi vida, ven a las agues. Ayúdame a purificarme con el exorcismo pagano. Mira mi casa y sus lumbres, no te quedes en la superficialidad, no escribas sobre tu carne los nombres de peces.

Según las circunstancias he traficado con las hojas que se acercan y con voces.

Mi casa es la cabeza, decir esto me reconforta.

X – Why such nothing.
Y – Let it be between us.
X – Why this less than that.
Y – There is only this us at now.
X – Why such serial why.
Y – I remain your hybrid half of this.
Y – I am also not yet an other.
Y – Nor even this as such yet and now.
X – This then at that.
Y – Only then as such.

eight inches
solar plexus

They...they tell me
Heaven is in these lips
But
Once I...I...well I kissed the bottom of the sole
Of the foot of a boy
Who ran into the ocean and
Drowned deep
Down below...

incline

interval. wonder.
statement as indicator. never. always.
always. never. abstract designs.
small paths. the equation of the tangent mind.
wander. circle. between/
idea/configuration.
ourselves trusted.


´´´´

design in blue

logic/probability
random/calculated

transcendental numbers
irrational numbers

complex numbers
real & imaginary

two parallel universes meet


````

precarious

the balance of leaf

the balance of star

unknown pages

maps hidden in clouds

geometrical patterns perceived in trees

silence & uncertainty manifesting

infinity times two


´´´´


voyaging
precarious

our
voices
waves

speculate
light

suns
moons

contour
air

our
bodies
in
orchards

wind
&
iris


````

poet
&
artist

floating
worlds

philosophic
worlds

fleeting

inclined
indirect

Each of our bodies
represents an approach
to movement within
the world’s circumference

my muscles soften underneath the
chinese-water-torture-drip
of seconds passing into seconds
passing into years

You were conceived on Sussex clay

The kind of clay that lines Downland dewponds
And figurative sites adorned
The touch of moisture makes it swell
It lures you in
That's when it takes hold, the golden clay, at invention
Apprehension
Growing up free as the swallow tied to instinct's route
As clay platelets, like Bentonite, seal, steal into cells
Gravity will pull a denser child down
You climb The Hill
DreamRide the clouds
And read withal of distant lives
Careless of settling layers of summer's dust

You could have left while light enough

To escape naked to the Back of the North Wind
But that flying horse you chose
Slowed, Stumbled, Broken-Winded
Fetlock deep in clay, leafless as
White bones compassed
Enriching the yellowclay land
Waiting ‘til Anderida drew them from the soil
breathing them out to drift
With the settling dust

Heads bowed,
her knees crumb-ling,
him sinking.
She holds a photo,
him squinting.
the Sun
the son.

Sun at the wheel,
the white locomotive is still
further by far than far away.
But on the move, on its way.

i swim in your every vowel
swallow
your salted words
and burn my eyes
in your uphill expressions

so
please...
carry me to shore
where I can
imprint your sands
and run my hands
down. Well,
You've been "kind"
and I, I...I

(thank you)

And am reminded
of a time when we still loved the ocean
and everything you did was just a simple act
to sea-change

Sometimes I think that
Mother Nature should have breast fed

deep Sea dive
listening for the
mysterious Rhythms
we make
slipping in my fingers
somersault ricochet
closed eyes
Open Me

Transform

Avignon knows that April has arrived
a week has passed, and perfection closed-
who has seen this language sprouting a wheel of air?
Recant, your life wicked, perhaps
a shelter becomes intensified
to find an easier existence found for embraced Art
When the war became, and open flowed expense
can curling pleasure hurt the Earth
now that pain is documented?
In Hearts true strength the burden passed
into quiet ceasing moments-years
fragrant pastures blaze in golden Light
She is softness, your Renaissance, old man
ninety famous stretches, fulsome holic-
pretty silence, clothed at last, your love

atoms listen with their purple cells
and...dont ask
the unsure-what it means-

Vibrate

Yo
Xu
Izaz
Ya-Ish
Ish-We-Ye-E
Ko
A
Naa
Ae
O
Ish-Tai-Ish
Ku
Zu-O-Ko-A-Sha-Naa

the miracle of changed consciousness
comes from placing the attention
above the difficulties of the day

with deep Gratitude
comes true humility
a key to the Fountain of Youth

Gratitude lights the way to enthusiasm.
enthusiasm clears the path to Love
Love is the key to freedom

BE
fountains of youth,
standing waves
whhirrrling, swirling to sur-face
shifting slightly...
just enough to
make wakes of Gratitude

dizziness optional

GOOD...NESSSSSSS


love...why dont you just sweep me off my feet and anyways...please saleei keep it comin'

Divine Coding

contained within Gratitude:

egg = beginning = creation
spiral = journey = discovery
circle = completion = return to Now


this formula,
held sacred for all creative purposes,
Will Divinely structure Now
to support
all generations

Living in Love

When you accept changes in your sovereign reality
as the shifting persona of the Universal Soul,
you live in greater harmony with life itself.

Life becomes an exchange of energy between you
and the Universal Soul that is allowed to play out;
without judgment, and is experienced without fear.
This is the underlying meaning of unconditional love:
to experience life in all its manifestations as a single,
unified intelligence that responds perfectly to the projected image of each soul.


It is for this reason that when you project Gratitude to the Universal Soul,
regardless of circumstance or condition,
life becomes increasingly supportive in opening you to activate your divine imprints.
This feeling of Gratitude coupled with the mental concept of appreciation
is expressed like an invisible message in all directions and at all times.


In this particular context, gratitude to the Universal Soul
is the overarching motive behind all forms of expression to which humanity aspires.


Every breath, every word, every touch, every thought, every thing
is centered on expressing this sense of Gratitude;
a Gratitude that you are sovereign and supported by a Universal Soul
that expresses itself through all forms and manifestations of intelligence
with the sole objective of creating the ideal reality
to activate your divine imprints
and transform your entire being into Divine Essence.


It is this specific form of Gratitude that accelerates
the activation of your divine imprints
and their peculiar ability to integrate the disparate components
of your body, mind, heart, and soul, and to transform them
to the state of perception and expression of Divine Essence....


Establishing a relationship with the universe
through the outflow of Gratitude
also attracts life experience that is trans formative -
experience that is richly devoted to uncovering life's
deepest meaning and most formative purpose.

Open your fist.
As my hand withdraws,
I bring it to my chest
nest.

My arm moves across you.

Hands face
your body. They form an X.

Outside
right.

Raise the wheel while pinning.
Hands near your temples.
Raise your body.

On the moon, not a cloud,
a catastrophic glow—O
the stars are little doors, little doors,
open one, a million more.

Every life is braided with luminous moments.

I was with a friend out on Loch Corrib, the largest lake in the West of Ireland. It was a beautiful summer's day. Time had come to rest in the silence and stillness that presided there. The lake slept without a ripple. A grey-blue haze enfolded everything. There was no division any more between earth and sky. Reaching far into the distance, everything was suffused in a majestic blue light. The mountains of Conamara seemed like pile upon pile of delicate blue; you felt you could almost reach out your hand and pull them towards you. No object protruded anywhere. Trees, stones, fields and islands had forgotten themselves in the daze of blue. Then, suddenly, a harsh flutter as near us the lake surface split and a huge cormorant flew from inside the water and struck up into the air. Its ragged black wings and large awkward shape were like an eruption from the underworld. Against the finely woven blue everywhere its strange form fluttered and gleamed in absolute black. She had the place to herself. She was the one clear object to be seen. And as if to conceal the source as she soared, she left her shadow thistling the lake surface. This was an event of pure disclosure: a sudden epiphany from between the worlds. The strange beauty of the cormorant was a counterpoint to the dreamlike delicacy of the lake and the landscape. Sometimes beauty is that unpredictable; a threshold we had never noticed opens, mystery comes alive around us and we realize how the earth is full of concealed beauty. St Augustine expressed this memorably: 'I asked the earth, I asked the sea and the deeps, among the living animals, the things that creep. I asked the winds that blow, I asked the heavens, the sun, the moon, the stars, and to all things that stand at the doors of my flesh ... My question was the gaze I turned to them. Their answer was their beauty.'

Beauty Is Quietly Woven through Our Days

When we hear the word 'beauty', we inevitably think that beauty belongs in a special elite realm where only the extraordinary dwells. Yet without realizing it, each day each one of us is visited by beauty. When you actually listen to people, it is surprising how often beauty is mentioned. A world without beauty would be unbearable. Indeed the subtle touches of beauty are what enable most people to survive. Yet beauty is so quietly woven through our ordinary days that we hardly notice it. Everywhere there is tenderness, care and kindness, there is beauty. Despite our natural difficulties with our parents, each of us has in our memory moments of deep love we shared with them. Perhaps it was a moment in which you became aware of some infinite tenderness in the way your mother gazed upon you, and you knew that her heart would always carry you as tenderly as it carried herself. Or it might have been a phrase of affection that has continued to sound around your life like a bright circle of blessing.

In Greek the word for 'the beautiful' is to kalon. It is related to the word kalein which includes the notion of 'call'. When we experience beauty, we feel called. The Beautiful stirs passion and urgency in us and calls us forth from aloneness into the warmth and wonder of an eternal embrace. It unites us again with the neglected and forgotten grandeur of life. The call of beauty is not a cold call into the dark or the unknown; in some instinctive way we know that beauty is no stranger. We respond with joy to the call of beauty because in an instant it can awaken under the layers of the heart a forgotten brightness. Plato said: 'Beauty was ours in all its brightness ... Whole were we who celebrated that festival' (Phaedrus).

Beauty does not linger, it only visits. Yet beauty's visitation affects us and invites us into its rhythm, it calls us to feel, think and act beautifully in the world: to create and live a life that awakens the Beautiful. A life without delight is only half a life. Lest this be construed as a plea for decadence or a self-indulgence that is blind to the horrors of the world, we should remember that beauty does not restrict its visitations only to those whom fortune or circumstances favour. Indeed, it is often the whispers and glimpses of beauty which enable people to endure on desperate frontiers.

Even, and perhaps especially, in the bleakest times, we can still discover and awaken beauty; these are precisely the times when we need it most. Nowhere else can we find the joy that beauty brings. Joy is not simply the fruit of circumstance; we can choose to be joyous independent of what is happening around us. The joyful heart sees and reads the world with a sense of freedom and graciousness. Despite all the difficult turns on the road, it never loses sight of the world as a gift. St Augustine said: 'The soul is weighed in the balance by what delights her. Delight or enjoyment sets the soul in her ordered place. Where the delight is, there is the treasure.' Perhaps this is why there is such delight in beauty. In the midst of fragmentation and distress beauty draws the soul into an experience where an elegant order prevails. This brings a lovely tranquillity and satisfies the desire of the soul. When the Beautiful continues on its way, the soul has been strengthened by a delight that will further assist her in transfiguring struggle.

Noah's ark came to my house one day
With all of his animals and he...took me away

speed of nerve impulse = 136 meters per second
speed of sound = 340.29 meters per second
speed of light = 186,000 miles per second
speed of thought = will
speed of intention = discipline
speed of acceptance = grace
speed of release = compassion
speed of Love = You
speed of Gratitude = Now

Awakening is a flowering of your innermost being.
It is a revelation of your essence,
hidden by long eons of self-delusion,
ignorance,
unbounded desires.

Enlightenment is an ending as well as a beginning:
the ending of the old, veiled, dark ego,
its longings, illusions, frustrations;
the beginning of a vast expanse,
an infinite field of the Unknown,
an adventure in consciousness.

It is a revolution:
it represents danger to the old way of life,
to old ways of thinking and living.

It is freedom from the known and the unknown;
from the real and the unreal;
from any appearance of division between you and Truth.

It is the abandoning of beliefs, dis-beliefs,
presumptions and stances,
self, ego,
call it what you will,
or call it nothing,
what it is.

It is the Path of the golden Dawn,
the Path out of the Night of Time
into the Bursting daylight of Eternal Now...

- Petros

i : you : too

water crystals reveal
structural alterations
bent by vibration
being currently
arranged to display Now

love beats true
within waking waters of time
called You and I

masterfully guided through Gratitude
this Source force Will create
bodies bent on behaving with
benevolent intentions
designed to witness
Life as waking Art

December is a key transitional month in which it's essential that we get ourselves unstuck from our old patterns and leap onto our new level, The River of Love. Throughout the month there will be Quantum Surf to help us break through. The entire momentum of the prevailing currents is leading us forward into an extremely exciting time, the time we have been waiting for, and we really don't want to miss it!

We've spent lifetimes mining for gold in a place that has already been stripped of all its minerals. There is no more gold left hidden in these rocks. And yet many of us are still mining there and feeling the constant disappointment that we are not finding what we have been so diligently searching for. This has caused us to become disheartened or numbly passive. It has made us lose our trust and covered us with a fine layer of dust.

We haven't found what we've been looking for because we've been looking for it in the wrong places and the wrong timing, not because we were looking for the wrong things. Our truest heart's desires are absolutely valid and they are finally on the brink of manifesting on the physical.

We have passed the Point of No Return. There is no going backwards and there is no more traveling on old roads. If we do, it will shorten our time on this planet and damage our beings. Remember, "OUR ONLY OPTION IS TO SUCCEED." Indeed, our only option is to now move our beings onto the totally new level which is right in front of us, and to jump into the River of Love with our full beings.

As increasing numbers of us leap into the River of Love, the resonance of Real True Love will spread all over the world, strengthening the resonance of Love for all and dissolving the final knots of duality.

Tonight I want nothing more than to
slide beneath your hands
in this clockless universe...
to smell your love upon my skin
while the ghostly hills pass
still walking at midnight...
walking behind

I move through drifting fog smoke rising from black vernal pools a dark spiral above tight piers of tiny boats circling fields beyond watercolor dunes cool lupine renegade poppies fiery mustard cascading i hear loves voice restless hanging reverberating in the air disturbing tones from a kabuki spring trance siberian sentencing from my mouth witness to where the silver moon flies into dreams kingdom mosaic musings awaking to my face tranquil to bliss

I want to hold your edges...Ascend into the mouth of your survival

When fire is the language
our limbs attack together the
fortresses of distance to free the sky
When skin is molten metal
I feel within me
his placidness a baffle to my brief joy

And in the burning garden
I shudder at the stranger
immune to the ellipsis
in our clipped cry

i can jump a three thousand year old desert
i can bound over the mountains of the moon
i can bend over jupiters blues
i can allow the seas to send seven songs of wisdom
from their deep throated estuaries
i can allow the stars to shine
but i can never call the rain mine

yet.
i am still a six thousand year old cave painting. yours
i am still a bat in an attic. yours
i am still a bee in the ceiling. yours
i am still a butterfly in a lanternhouse. yours

you are still that sunbeam that races over the sand. mine
you are still that corner i am about to walk around. mine
you are still channels and winds alive. mine
you are still that lofty
love making
arm bending
granite crunching
heart of. mine

i am the news
oil painted oceans
laced rivers over curves
crafted trees in pipe cleaners
crumpled tissue paper
populated land masses
with egg box buildings
representing living things
in magic marker dots and lines
colour coded stickers
reapplying the glue

A strange passion is moving in my head.
My heart has become a bird which searches
in the sky.
Every part of me goes in different directions.
Is it really so that the one I love is everywhere?

- Rumi

La mar es posa bona si veu el cony d'una dona

to move from there
all embracing trancendental nature
names forms disappear within
free from illusory covering
free from false consciousness
infinite knowledge
liberation
purity
flavor
bonds
devour time
gentle mother recreate
eternal night
power of energy
formless passion
boundless freedom
manifest state of sound
be nature
illumined consciousness
the bright fire of truth
all merge
reveal the infinite
death of death
mysteries
a spiral line movement
movement of creation
compassion
ribbons of light
understand
worlds of light
the lady of life

And who are you to tell me that this heaven we all dream of is not really just this earth we breathe in...?

Mercy, love, Mercy

The light, the light!
The searching, the seeking!
In chaos, in chaos!

The mother swells expanding from within outwards
Darkness radiates light
Behold the radiant child of the two...
The unparalleled...
Revulgent glory...
Bright space...
Son of dark space

Ils ont trouvé un trou dans mon coeur...
La marque de beauté je dirais
Les échos de moi...
Epargner des bébés accidentels
Faire taire maintenant...
Mis expliquer
Vous et la lune...
Il n'aura jamais d'importance

The purpose of the body is to experience life fully. The body becomes a vehicle for the intelligence by which it is able to experience life fully. In order to make sound more audible people build domes and other places where resonance is produced and the voice and the words become more clear. So the construction of the body is intended to make all that is perceptible clear. By nature the body is the vehicle of the intelligence or the soul, by which it experiences life fully. But as man has lived for generations a life of increasing artificiality, he has moved farther and farther from nature; therefore this vehicle which was made a perfect instrument to experience life fully has become less and less capable of attaining that object. It is this incapability of experiencing life fully, and the innate desire to experience it, which makes the soul strive for spiritual attainment. What man does not know he thinks does not exist; in this is to be found the origin of materialism. But the tendency towards spiritual realization remains there as an innate desire which is consciously or unconsciously felt by every soul, whether spiritual or material. It is for this reason that even a material person has a silent craving in his heart to probe the depth of the very spiritual ideal which he disowns.

The work of the senses is to experience, to taste, smell, touch, hear, and see; but besides these senses there is the inner sense which is one sense. It is by experiencing through the different organs of the senses that this one sense becomes many senses. It is the same sense which hears, smells, tastes, feels, touches; but because it experiences life through different organs, man divides one sense into five senses. The depth of that sense which is the inner sense is more subtle than one can imagine. When that sense finds a free expression it not only experiences life more keenly through the organs of the senses, but it becomes independent of the organs of sense. It penetrates through life deeply, and as Kabir says, 'It sees without eyes and hears without ears'. The reason is this: that all that exists is contained in an accommodation and by being in the nature of all things is revealed.

In fact there is nothing in this world which does not speak. Everything and every being is continually calling out its nature, its character and its secret; and the more the inner sense is open, the more it becomes capable of hearing the voice of all things. In every person this sense exists, but for the most part, hidden, buried; and its being buried gives discomfort, for it is something which is living, the only living being there is. The idea of the 'lost word' has its secret in this; when once this inner sense has broken the walls which keep it enclosed, it breathes the freedom and happiness which belong to the soul; the soul attains. Every discomfort, from whatever source, comes through the lack of understanding. The more the inner sense is covered, the more the soul finds itself in obscurity. It is for this reason that the sign of the enlightened soul is readiness to understand; therefore these souls are easy to reconcile. When a person can understand himself better, he can make another person understand better also. But when a person is perplexed himself, instead of making another person understand, he confuses him. In this way differences are produced.

The organs of the senses are the accommodations of grosser and finer nature. The finer the organ the more perception it has; the grossness takes away from the organ its power of perception.

This shows that the body may be likened to a glass house made of mirrors. In Persian language the poets have called it Aina Khana, meaning the 'Temple of mirrors'. The eye stands as a mirror before all that is visible;it reflects all that it sees. The ears are the accommodation for the re-echo of every sound that falls upon them. The senses of touch and of taste are grosser than the senses of sight and hearing. At the same time their nature is the same; all the different sweet, sour and salt savors, and the feeling of warmth and cold, are perceived by them, and they stand as mirrors in which objects are reflected. Therefore, as one sees oneself reflected in the mirror, so this body stands as a mirror in which every experience of the outer life is reflected, and is made clear. If the mirror is dusty it does not reflect the image clearly, so the experience of life is not clear when the body is not looked after according to the spiritual point of view.

The scriptures say that the body is the Temple of God; but the right interpretation of this saying would be that the body is made to be the Temple of God; a temple cannot be called a Temple of God if God is not brought and placed there. So it is natural when a soul feels depressed that there is something wrong with the vehicle. When the writer wishes to work, and the pen is not in order, it annoys him; there is nothing the matter with the writer; it is the pen which is not right. No discomfort comes from the soul; the soul is happy by nature; the soul is happiness itself. It becomes unhappy when something is the matter with its vehicle, which is its instrument, its tool, with which to experience life. Care of the body, therefore, is the first and the most important principle of religion. Piety without this thought is of little significance.

The soul manifests in this world in order that it may experience the different phases of manifestation, and yet may not lose its way and be lost, but may attain to its original freedom, in addition to the experience and knowledge it has gained in this world. The different exercises that the Sufis and Yogis do in order to enable the mind and body to experience life more fully, exercises such as fasting, pose, posture, movement, they all help to train the body, that it may become a fitting vehicle for the experience of life. Wonder-working, such as psychometry, feeling the atmosphere of places, of objects, of people, comes when the body is also prepared for it.

A person may be intelligent, clever, learned, good or pious, and yet his sense of perception may not be fully awake. It must be remembered as the first principle of life that manifestation was destined for keener observation of life within and without.

The greatest unhappiness that a person feels is from lack of mastery; the unhappiness comes when knowing his mastery he yet cannot practice that which he knows. Sadness comes from limitation, limitation in different forms: lack of perception, lack of power over oneself, or over conditions, or from the lack of that substance which is happiness itself, which is love.

There is sometimes lack of understanding, though there may be love, or lack of love through lack of understanding;there may be both things and lack of power. If love has reached perfection it will attain all three powers;when love becomes power, it becomes understanding. The nature of love is as the nature of water in the depths of the earth. If one does not dig deep enough one finds sand, not water; but when one digs deep enough one finds water. Many lovers of God lose patience, trust and hope; they have touched sand and not reached water, but when they have dug deep enough they find pure water.

As there are different organs of senses, so there are five centers of inner perception. These centers are seats of the intuitive faculties. Two among them are of great importance: the heart and the head. If the Sufi training differs from that of the Yogis, it is in the training of both these centers together, by which the Sufi achieves balance. The head without the heart shows dry intellect. The heart without the head represents an unbalanced condition. Balance is the use of both these faculties. The Sufi training is based upon this principle.

The centers may be likened to the space that one finds in the apple. It is an accommodation, where not only scent, touch, hearing and sight are perceived, but even the thought and feeling of another; the condition in the atmosphere, the pleasure and displeasure of one's fellow-man are perceived, and if the sense of perception is keener, then even past, present and future are revealed. When man does not perceive in this way it does not mean that it is foreign to his nature; it only means that the soul has not developed that power of perception in his body. The absence of such free perception naturally causes depression and confusion, for the soul longs for a keen perception; and it feels confused, and at times agitated, owing to a lack of a fuller perception, as the person who is blind feels nervous agitation, because the inner longing is to see, and when the organ of sight fails he becomes agitated.

This is generally the cause in many souls who feel restless. And the life man lives is a life of artificiality, it works against him. It is not necessary to read the ancient traditions to find out the truth about this. Today in the people who live a less artificial life, a more simple life, a life in and near nature, the intuitive faculties are more keen, and these people show a greater happiness.

The centers become blocked by certain foods and by living a more materialistic life. They are located in certain places; and as there are some plants in the caves of the mountains where the sun and the air do not reach, and it is difficult for the plants to live, so are the centers of perception located in the physical body; the body is nourished by food, but these centers remain without any nourishment.

The physical body is made of matter, its substance is matter; but the centers of perception are of still finer matter, and though they are located in the physical body, no nourishment can reach them, except that which is drawn through the breath, the fine substance which is not even visible. In the language of the mystics it is called Nur, which means light. The body does not only want food, but also breath, in other words vibration, and that vibration is given to it by the repetition of sacred words. The sounds, the vowels, and the composition of the sacred words is chemical, and it is this process which was called by the ancient philosophers Alchemy. These centers are the domes where every sound has its echo, and the echo once produced in this Asman reaches all other Asmans which exist within and without. Therefore the repetition of a sacred word has not only to do with oneself and one's life, but it spreads and rises higher than man can imagine, and wider than he can perceive. Verily every action sets in movement every atom of the universe.

When once the inner sense has become keen it shows its development first by working through the organs of the senses. The vision becomes clearer, the hearing becomes keener, the sense or touch felt more keenly, sense of taste and smell clearer. Therefore among those who tread the mystic path one finds many who are sensitive, and become more sensitive as they develop spiritually. As the standard of health known by the average person is much beneath the mystical ideal, so to the uninitiated the sensitiveness of a person of mystical temperament may often seem peculiar. At the same time when this sensitiveness is developed by spiritual training, and is under control, it manifests as the first quality in the life of a seer. The body which covers the soul keeps it blind by depriving it of its freedom of expression in keener perception. It is like a captivity for the soul. When the centers of the body are awakened and at work, then the soul experiences life more clearly, and naturally clouds which give depression clear away. The soul begins to look forward to life with hope, with trust, and with courage; and thus attains that power and understanding which is needed in the struggle for Life.

When a little more advanced, the intelligence begins to see through the eyes what every eye cannot see: the finer forces of nature manifesting in color and form. There are many who talk much about this, and some who know and say little, for they do not see wisdom in speaking about something which their neighbor does not see. And among those who speak much about seeing things which others do not see, there is hardly one who really sees.

There is no doubt that, as the sight becomes keen, first the colors of different elements working in nature manifest to the view; secondly, the atmosphere that is created around man, which is composed of semi-material atoms also becomes manifest. This is what is called the aura. The different colors of this aura express the meaning, for there is nothing in this world which is without meaning. The one who pursues the meaning of life in all its aspects hears again in them the Word which was once lost for him. No doubt the life of a sensitive person becomes difficult, especially when one has to live among the crowd. It is for this reason the Brahmins lived an exclusive life, which has been criticized by some who do not know the meaning of it. Different practices of breathing are a great help in training both mind and body to make them more perceptive, in order that they may become fitting vehicles to fulfil the purpose of life.

Hope...put that gun to your head

the red flame smooths my edges
and settles around the wick
flickering the light
with my hips swinging
an iridescent dress
above the dripping wax
clothes fall in infinite fold
from fingers sliding
so smooth they mold
to my back and
turn my breath into smoke

i found a rope in my head
rain on a mornings cloud
the trees werent afraid of change
but i was lacking language

meantime wings
delicate
sweeter than gods
would tell me my dreams are alive

look in my windows
when i say bone dust
step over the mountain peaks they'd repeat

for i found the house i lived in
was cloth that would fall down
the spread of sand
was land sailed
where lights expired
stars shined

and even though i was just an apple lying at your feet
and even though i am still just the stem and seeds

you are just the earth

mountains of flesh
soft as grass
blowing in the wind
from mouths in the bed
weaving beneath to spread your roots

i love you

your excursion
the tip of your nerves inhale the light
as i spin and spin
as i look at the stars
they never look the same from where you are
never oh never will i believe
that they are not a sheet draped
floating night to lift light

your eyelids are the earth
twice spun upon its axis

roll with the ocean
the moon blinks
the caves dig deeper
and my blood runs faster
my heart rumbles at your feet

how did my love wound around your waist?
how does this water fall down your spine?

Holy!
Said the gloves;
Holy! Holy!
Heaven and Earth are full.
Dear fish,
I say to you,
Heaven and Earth are full -
so what shall you do?

On a puddle,
I stumble,
loitering on the open palm of your shadow.

The world is blue at its edges and in its depths. This blue is the light that got lost. Light at the blue end of the spectrum does not travel the wole distance from the sun to us. It disperses amoung the molecules of the air, it scatters in water. Water is colorless, shallow water appears to be the color of whatever lies underneath it, but deep water is full of this scattered light, the purer the water the deeper the blue. The sky is blue for the same reason, but the blue at the horizon, the blue of land that seems to be dissolving into the sky, is a deeper, dreamier, melancholy blue, the blue at the farthest reaches of the places where you see for miles, the blue of distance. This light that does not touch us, does not travel the whole distance, the light that gets lost, gives us the beauty of the world, so much of which is in the color blue.

Love is something that is new, fresh, alive. It has no yesterday and no tomorrow. It is beyond the turmoil of thought. It is only the innocent mind which knows what love is, and the innocent mind can live in the world which is not innocent. To find this extraordinary thing which man has sought endlessly through sacrifice, through worship, through relationship, through sex, through every form of pleasure and pain, is only possible when thought comes to understand itself and comes naturally to an end. Then love has no opposite, then love has no conflict. You may ask, `If I find such a love, what happens to my wife, my children, my family? They must have security.' When you put such a question you have never been outside the field of thought, the field of consciousness. When once you have been outside that field you will never ask such a question because then you will know what love is in which there is no thought and therefore no time. You may read this mesmerized and enchanted, but actually to go beyond thought and time - which means going beyond sorrow - is to be aware that there is a different dimension called love. But you don't know how to come to this extraordinary fount - so what do you do? If you don't know what to do, you do nothing, don't you? Absolutely nothing. Then inwardly you are completely silent. Do you understand what that means? It means that you are not seeking, not wanting, not pursuing; there is no centre at all. Then there is love.

this life a days whistle wave your name by the light ending vibrantly who lies murali veena nothing better takes its time left in hand unlimited breath i become hari om guiding in the morning holding you stay close share time not death asking questions so many questions as to why you act the way you do ignoring your name sent in by the rain drops peering down the rooftop underneath what if i could ask you what would you say there's so much time left but not enough of...you dropping my thoughts not anything real truth or dare drift drone my red balloon x-rayed serenity in the flash-lite day-time stay on your toes heavenly safe-mode echoes not forgetting lazy butterfly tomorrow starshine come home come home all you need is babylon stone buried alive the world disappeared rushing to get by low class mastermind come back my way down the mountain be here now i fall in love as much as i can get down get down on the edge of night shining through petals glistening options faith-less fucshia dimensions meaningless what would you do if i told you i am the sea dont pass me by just listen to the dream...sequence deep sun sup-er-son-ic-a shock body the art of seren-ad-ing...coffees cold drop of honey lost moon-song in the beginning tights open up the stats tied through i rhyme shirley temple can bring me back satisfying every operation verdict for what it is the resurrection has reached up the ending never to call the last act mean machine i search you know what i mean saying it next for more than myself leaving it dirty forgetting to add the text i use to translate start a revolution going to reach up your body teaching everything you know given me what takes it to style inside one more fire going too far work it leave in a quarter not to make me sweet talk i prefer to lick my wounds and call me pretentious im alive thats all it takes to make the change listening to the road calculate the next move i make im on the corner of the bottom coming back lying in the snow a course in everything ending seven twenty seven here i know there is a reason why im not afraid to die with my two hands free at last

to bring together simultaneously
the devotional and the diplomatic
rather than the work that attempts to
take step shake stimulate space
where that split does not subsist
where the stories repeat the same old plots
the space is dark and half-forgotten
but within it lies a power that runs
counter to the principle of domination
upon which our society is based
in essence this is about power
about the difference between
clouds over the state and a nation enclosed
about the stories and thought-forms that convey control
about ethics based on influence within the illicit limiting
leaving it moves in the dark vision
and action magic evoking
transforming ourselves our people our exposure
resisting the destruction
dark ribbons of the road
we pass orchards of oranges and fields of wild mustard
we know
we know witches old religions the goddess
we know
we know the moon akin in sprit form myth
drawing underlining experience
rituals to change
values awakening power
within the bodies
walls connecting nature with the goddess
reinventing changing
emerge alive
as the gypsy dwellers honor
a source of inner mental intangible life
nothing could grow but
the ability to divine the future
to build create to bond
activities of the flesh
ecological destruction
challenging domination
that seeks to connect with
the root
the heart
the source of life
by changing a growing realization
secretly silently underground
related by blood
retelling the passion
feeding it
to break the mold
to dream the moonless as change
to create it in a new image
because...it creates us
giving birth
listening to the shadows
opening the minds eye
all that we don't want to see
turning change
skin soft in the night
life forms itself anew in hidden places
a journey to question our culture on the edge of annihilation
finding the dark revolutionized as our own power
a new image dreamt into action kind and charged
reserved for the unseen
coiled in the heart of every cell of every living thing
the spark of every nerve
and the life of every breath
a sudden flash in the sky
smoking flesh
constantly pushing history
as a commitment to action deepened
even though
i must end somewhere
the journey continues
a journey through fear
a descent into the light
promising something at the end
we know shaped by these words
we can make different choices
consciousness shapes reality
reality shapes consciousness
magic is art
possibilities of fulfillment
hundreds of thousands of small decisions
we are not in truth strangers to this world
we are a part of the circle
to run through the redwoods that sweat mist
we are not separate
we are of the world

and you fell just so perfectly sweetening the intricacy of my muddle jumble you'll never know the people in the ceiling watch the way you work through spirit tissue texture split ending shredding glowing orange silver woven nectar the answer well wisher is off in the frizzies familiar cookie dough calamity dripping off the top of a building so high up youd think i had shoelaced a dash top of the makeshift celebrate wonder two times too quick no limits to where i will stop tumbling with the roots of vines keep on going in till my heart dawns another atmosphere the sidetracked sight feel is falling together wheres the beginning my chocolate chip delicious-ness chief said the last lover i left in paris went up and down the streets but never made a sound slip away to operate hustler speeding down highway one fifty one leaving behind different levels different miles metro circle powered by the breathe of every heartbeat that could last

im incredibly upside...

...dont stop...



down...

Making love
then making toast
one Sunday morning
they caught a glimpse of
other people
rather like themselves
long before
the war

i will divide my life into two colors for the auctual efforts located deep inside the lowest part walls built three moonlights from the floor everything but fame climbing out limiting a mystery admiring the worlds work rumbling tumbling the wind was blowing splitting my hair yesterday paniking killing two i havent found a voice to fill in the quiet in gestures thinking i was only seven days wasted this time i must have felt something in the morning i miss you he said two bottles buried in bed something even less sincere my hands were open your eyes wider shining light a little after dawn it was too late to make a break the moon was laughing at the sight of every single observation a pile of ashes glorious dejection will be more than half of you dry pavement a last habitat violent downpour unbelievably true a flying word softly now the light along the banks tells me here and there happiness stir the day is done a love for any lady love leads my feet dance no more let a running river be fossilized ego falters in the find i am awed to learn among the rocks id gladly take a course on blanks foretaste the consequence of devising ways in human minds to be celebrating an ancient spell religions casting against responsiblity for life on earth what will the heart and consciousness bring a truth unchallenged salivating to mock our shock love so abstract to defy the mind to find multiplied sweet relief beyond the call blossoms bursting the bands of light reminding me of how soon you will forget that we had never met catastrophic clippings hidden moments burning fields the minute from the movement going on claims of reason go under the trees shaking faking as if the wind was moved by me as i drift into a dream cascading falls flooding across the earth bright as the warmth swimming through my skin so subtle so delicate with the power to ignite its been eighteen cycles around the generations past asleep beneath the grass passed away when your beauty is nothing i have never forgotten we will have just left the secret life saints sinners madmen gurus dreamers weavers are you sure you want to come in here sometimes days or even weeks will reappear playing patience sits alone people trounce up city streets spewing your diaphanous seeds risky exhuberance absorbed nowhere but here rebuilt midwinter rosy cheeked the street is the same that you travelled on last night an explosion of lights gasps flashes crowds rockets are soaring like unicorn manes would make it all worthwhile as the temptress' heels clock over the ground bodies will shine evocative sea sweat and its secret here is a star here is a luna moth these words my nocturnal emissions written in invisible ink unseen here but appearing there the constants the sun will shine over houses that were bombed in the night

i crunch my numbers and meld my digits
caustically consumed by my electric hands
that i dare to run like the breath on the back of my neck
so i will breathe liquid gold into the purifying air
my lungs fill with smooth lead

a hope that says protein is good for a lingering soul

my eyes spill residue filled with dust
as i run with my legs flawlessly failing

i am a destruction runner

my feet burn the ground
and my hair stuns the wind

i am spinning the air around my body
into cotton candy threads which sugar-melts into your lips

my emotions speak for my eyes
and my eyes speak for my heart

eyes that pour pure placid paint
dont have room in my closet
eyes that blatantly confiscate
dont have room in my kitchen sink

i want to nibble natures nourishment forever
without a stop
without a drop
without an opportunity

i am trying to be brought to my peak
please do your part

crying out to the butterfly effect complete with a sun askin why do i why do i have to depend on you for so much more than this unsolved light wheres the love that you all keep telling me beats across for the flower that swallows the moon outside la ciudad wheres the passion giving me the high that i cant even think of what it was like bein out hiding in the caves with rain daydreaming who has killed the sunshine who has a happy ending cause you know id rather take a look inside and see what ive been hidin so deep in this soul sayin the truth is nothin more than what we used to be when we were little askin mummy why the trees dont always stay green and what would happen if the sky fell down loose things...
see i dont like bein another set gun with a sublime undefiled soundtrack to why the fuck did you even try believing i stay out of reach only to step on those who give me the time of day upright its not you what im craving and you wont fulfill the images i create only i could do this midnight slave-trade but maybe im wrong cause i do believe theres somethin in each and every one of us deep down somethin that breathes the fire each person is putting out as mary holds your hand late at night tellin you it would be okay cause when you would step in-between the pillars feeling the crys of saints beggin to be let out a structure that wasnt masterminded to be real of anything less than existence trailing behind our mouths carry you farther than one could believe so stay out and breathe a parting song to stay acquiesce consenting alternatively by choice
break...break my anamnesis recapture awareness tear it far away from where i wanted this life to reminiscence so i can forget my ego keeps repeating testing a subject beyond anyones particular pictorial coitus could not satisfy the beings of who we continue to be i will ask if you speak the same desires to move on from a world that i can no longer strain affirmation of an orange dust justification causing my own arms to shake fleeing in the mornings breeze to the tunes of old fifties spinning on my grandmothers broken down body screaming into the eyes of all that pass her skin in nocturnal elements answering the questions of surfaces and that each of our bodies that may represent you live again and again beyond the dreams of where this world may end-
im out of the lock thought manifestation representation a revelation underneath and where i will hide is where you will take the steps to moving above for a prayer of exposition a misconception that any of us could dream apprehension so beautiful so out of reach we cry out to our children show us your innocence show us the light show us something anything of what we lost in the hip hop and a skip bailliwick to truth what was spurious baseborn unrespected simply taken right out of the rivers residing in our hands as we looked away for that certain somebody to derive magnetize our breathes revenued taking our lips so we could just give it up so quick someone to prove ourselves to spray fire on our ancestors graves recollecting a seductress celestial supreme being sanctity used to sing at the top of my lungs words from my mind blowing bubbles into what i thought would save me from the dark side so that i desired a skylight in which to face myself images of crooked candles promises of how diamonds and comforts will not broaden the world tokyo racism language missiles short skirts point of disgust slow acting simple i visit my passport and look into the eyes of an exterior learning how to live leading the pensive pauses as a prayer for peace
i welcome the collective unconscious conscious i say i am yet i never knew whos hand it was reflecting cracked stained glass in the city lights trains passin by panadol eyes business suits and crumpled papers trembling holding everybody but mine holding a flower stubborn as the grief lay low reached the ground today abandoning paradise ill keep in touch with that hard sunlight that exists in the middle of his mind fast asleep but dont worry about me anymore all this is is gravity gravity playin its lack of sleep i live in these abjectives and moon growers immortal eyesore a beaut noctiluca luminescent life everlasting towering showering appetency ability reflecting perfection existing in sectors earth mother tootsie tart object of worship damsel get yourself out

Join the Resistance and Fall in Love

Falling in love is the ultimate act of revolution, of resistance to today's tedious, socially restrictive, culturally constrictive, humanly meaningless world.

Love transforms the world. Where the lover formerly felt boredom, he now feels passion. Where she once was complacent, she now is excited and compelled to self-asserting action. The world which once seemed empty and tiresome becomes filled with meaning, filled with risks and rewards, with majesty and danger. Life for the lover is a gift, an adventure with the highest possible stakes; every moment is memorable, heartbreaking in its fleeting beauty. When he falls in love, a man who once felt disoriented, alienated, and confused will know exactly what he wants. Suddenly his existence will make sense to him; suddenly it becomes valuable, even glorious and noble, to him. Burning passion is an antidote that will cure the worst cases of despair and resigned obedience.

Love makes it possible for individuals to connect to others in a meaningful way—it impels them to leave their shells and risk being honest and spontaneous together, to come to know each other in profound ways. Thus love makes it possible for them to care about each other genuinely, rather than at the end of the gun of Christian doctrine. But at the same time, it plucks the lover out of the routines of everyday life and separates her from other human beings. She will feel a million miles away from the herd of humanity, living as she is in a world entirely different from theirs.

In this sense love is subversive, because it poses a threat to the established order of our modern lives. The boring rituals of workday productivity and socialized etiquette will no longer mean anything to a man who has fallen in love, for there are more important forces guiding him than mere inertia and deference to tradition. Marketing strategies that depend upon apathy or insecurity to sell the products that keep the economy running as it does will have no effect upon him. Entertainment designed for passive consumption, which depends upon exhaustion or cynicism in the viewer, will not interest him.

There is no place for the passionate, romantic lover in today's world, business or private. For he can see that it might be more worthwhile to hitchhike to Alaska (or to sit in the park and watch the clouds sail by) with his sweetheart than to study for his calculus exam or sell real estate, and if he decides that it is, he will have the courage to do it rather than be tormented by unsatisfied longing. He knows that breaking into a cemetery and making love under the stars will make for a much more memorable night than watching television ever could. So love poses a threat to our consumer-driven economy, which depends upon consumption of (largely useless) products and the labor that this consumption necessitates to perpetuate itself.

Similarly, love poses a threat to our political system, for it is difficult to convince a man who has a lot to live for in his personal relationships to be willing to fight and die for an abstraction such as the state; for that matter, it may be difficult to convince him to even pay taxes. It poses a threat to cultures of all kinds, for when human beings are given wisdom and valor by true love they will not be held back by traditions or customs which are irrelevant to the feelings that guide them.

Love even poses a threat to our society itself. Passionate love is ignored and feared by the bourgeoisie, for it poses a great danger to the stability and pretense they covet. Love permits no lies, no falsehoods, not even any polite half-truths, but lays all emotions bare and reveals secrets which domesticated men and women cannot bear. You cannot lie with your emotional and sexual response; situations or ideas will excite or repel you whether you like it or not, whether it is polite or not, whether it is advisable or not. One cannot be a lover and a (dreadfully) responsible, (dreadfully) respectable member of today's society at the same time; for love will impel you to do things which are not "responsible" or "respectable." True love is irresponsible, irrepressible, rebellious, scornful of cowardice, dangerous to the lover and everyone around her, for it serves one master alone: the passion that makes the human heart beat faster. It disdains anything else, be it self-preservation, obedience, or shame. Love urges men and women to heroism, and to antiheroism—to indefensible acts that need no defense for the one who loves.

For the lover speaks a different moral and emotional language than the typical bourgeois man does. The average bourgeois man has no overwhelming, smoldering desires. Sadly, all he knows is the silent despair that comes of spending his life pursuing goals set for him by his family, his educators, his employers, his nation, and his culture, without ever being able to even consider what needs and wants he might have of his own. Without the burning fire of desire to guide him, he has no criteria upon which to choose what is right and wrong for himself. Consequently he is forced to adopt some dogma or doctrine to direct him through his life. There are a wide variety of moralities to choose from in the marketplace of ideas, but which morality a man buys into is immaterial so long as he chooses one because he is at a loss otherwise as to what he should do with himself and his life. How many men and women, having never realized that they had the option to choose their own destinies, wander through life in a dull haze thinking and acting in accordance with the laws that have been taught to them, merely because they no longer have any other idea of what to do? But the lover needs no prefabricated principles to direct her; her desires identify what is right and wrong for her, for her heart guides her through life. She sees beauty and meaning in the world, because her desires paint the world in these colors. She has no need for dogmas, for moral systems, for commandments and imperatives, for she knows what to do without instructions.

Thus she does indeed pose quite a threat to our society. What if everyone decided right and wrong for themselves, without any regard for conventional morality? What if everyone did whatever they wanted to, with the courage to face any consequences? What if everyone feared loveless, lifeless monotony more than they fear taking risks, more than they fear being hungry or cold or in danger? What if everyone set down their "responsibilities" and "common sense," and dared to pursue their wildest dreams, to set the stakes high and live each day as if it were the last? Think what a place the world would be! Certainly it would be different than it is now—and it is quite a truism that people from the "mainstream," the simultaneous keepers and victims of the status quo, fear change.

And so, despite the stereotyped images used in the media to sell toothpaste and honeymoon suites, genuine passionate love is discouraged in our culture. Being "carried away by your emotions" is frowned upon; instead we are raised to always be on our guard lest our hearts lead us astray. Rather than being encouraged to have the courage to face the consequences of risks taken in pursuit of our hearts' desires, we are counseled not to take risks at all, to be "responsible." And love itself is regulated. Men must not fall in love with other men, nor women with other women, nor individuals from different ethnic backgrounds with each other, or else the usual bigots who form the front-line offensive in the assault of modern Western culture upon the individual will step in. Men and women who have already entered into a legal/religious contract with each other are not to fall in love with anyone else, even if they no longer feel any passion for their marital partner. Love as most of us know it today is a carefully prescribed and preordained ritual, something that happens on Friday nights in expensive movie theaters and restaurants, something that fills the pockets of the shareholders in the entertainment industries without preventing workers from showing up to the office on time and ready to reroute phone calls all day long. This regulated, commercial "love" is nothing like the passionate, burning love that consumes the genuine lover. These restrictions, expectations, and regulations smother true love; for love is a wild flower that can never grow within the confines prepared for it but only appears where it is least expected.

We must fight against these cultural restraints that would cripple and smother our desires. For it is love that gives meaning to life, desire that makes it possible for us to make sense of our existence and find purpose in our lives. Without these, there is no way for us to determine how to live our lives, except to submit to some authority, to some god, master or doctrine that will tell us what to do and how to do it without ever giving us the satisfaction that self-determination does. So fall in love today, with men, with women, with music, with ambition, with yourself. . . with life!

One might say that it is ridiculous to implore others to fall in love—one either falls in love or one does not, it is not a choice that can be made consciously. Emotions do not follow the instructions of the rational mind. But the environment in which we must live out our lives has a great influence on our emotions, and we can make rational decisions that will affect this environment. It should be possible to work to change an environment that is hostile to love into an environment that will encourage it. Our task must be to engineer our world so that it is a world in which people can and do fall in love, and thus to reconstitute human beings so that we will be ready for the "revolution" spoken of in these pages—so that we will be able to find meaning and happiness in our lives.

What if everyone decided right and wrong for themselves, without any regard for conventional morality? What if everyone did whatever they wanted to, with the courage to face any consequences? What if everyone feared loveless, lifeless monotony more than they fear taking risks, more than they fear being hungry or cold or in danger? What if everyone set down their "responsibilities" and "common sense," and dared to pursue their wildest dreams, to set the stakes high and live each day as if it were the last? Think what a place the world could be...

If the world we are supposed to accept is false and nothing is true-then everything is possible on the way to discovering what we love we will find what we hate is everything that blocks our path and what we desire it will never be comfortable for those who seek what is not on the market a systematic questioning of the idea of happiness we will cut the vocal chords of every empowered speaker we will yank the social symbols through the looking glass we will devalue societies currency to confront the familiar society is a fraud so complete and venal that it demands to be destroyed beyond the power of money to recall its existence where there is fire we will carry gasoline to interrupt the continuum of every day experience and all the normal expectations that go with it to live as if something auctually depended on ones actions to rapture the spell of idiology of the commodified consumer society so that our repressed desires of a more authentic nature can come forward to demonstrate the contrast between what life presently is and what it could be to immerse ourselves in the oblivion of action to know were making it happen it will be an intensity never before known in this every day life, to exchange love and hate life and death terror and redemption repulsions and attractions an affirmation of freedom so reckless and unqualified that it amounts to a total denial of any kind of restraint or limitation

Love is a verb here in my room.

the selfless servent we all proclaim of is in reiteration that the i that i am is not the me that i know and asks to be alone is in a dream forgetting offense no the impossible is possible where a thousand palms hang down against the earths fence--and if you plan on dreaming just be sure you believe turning your back is not fighting this time-dont forget to watch whats goin on in that soul inside cause really how could you know? ripped through the pages im glad to say i did collaberating only so i can see whats hiding in that mind and no i dont think ill be seen if i blend myself far enough clashing bark with green these leaves will heal and count out all of my physical piracy--but really anyways how could you know any of this? i dont love the game turn me around drop me upside and listen to the crys of experience its just what im going to do sometimes and its just for the prestige radiating hopscotch along the line between sanity and madness yet mostly its the love its the love that pours in so deep hitting through these low three ways to waste-on and on like every day its a routine but id like to think its a course of delicate realistic hopes and dreams of brilliance i can never quite treat slow to leave me wondering and wandering through the creations of the old seeds i pass on so slow into the streets.
its this avoidance i create a thousand miles in one hour back to what i had begun best of what i could have done. so tell me admittance is the key here i will deny honestly well somewhat maybe id rather move on to whats real which could never include this man who carries my heart softly soaring through an atmosphere where i can fall repeatedly breaking a barrier that never exists -- knowledge is in this game of waving a flag holding no name versus the man who stands in the corner begging for anything everything yet youd never see a home a smile a cure for his soul that will die before his body red only in the childrens cheeks--too busy swallowing the guilty consciousness to take another look.
if its true a hurricanes been placed in my tea spinning taken in the hands of anothers gods dream. sugar swirling faster and faster breaking the blank faceless tenemants streaming water light fading end your story proving you could fly no more chasing lights in other peoples eyes faking numbers in a slumber breaking hearts to remember what it feels like as a child to witness being denied moving throughout this life in a crisis not in a mind that states of strength testing your righteousness spending money to keep busy truth is your consuming it all grabbing ahold of what all these words could mean but at least i know youre free to be held down only by what youve asked and could not believe.
so i will leave with a smile on my face thinking long and hard about how somehow there must have been a glint in that stream passing by the weights of gold on shoulders toppled cause when people change this is what i see-
and i could hear you harmonize lay bare my dreams are meant to be kept where you sleep and so stepping out requires belief beauty is your only way down for the count ill see you next spring love and communication-time is nothing but a structered form to keep us goin on this hit yet miss-expressionless-gotta be when the city wants to charge your body gettin paid with whats left-a girl with no vitality daddys ghost stepped behind me a prayer inside spoken words like numbers voiced through a man holding himself against a wall dying simply cause he cant hit repeat and purity is too far out of reach in a world with these bombs being built weeding out your own family losing sight of whos real.
i keep to myself this reality dropped in a glass full of a hidden past and all these little stories i carry along for the sake of my mommas glory for when someone told me to keep on shinin bright i felt youve got to call upon this wish when i lose sight of the light...and being the sounds that stride in to cultivate my mind surviving statistics eyes wide to scan inside for anything...anything to relate more than a graced invite when all that youll do is map out L.A. on the basement layer so that when the doctors kindly tell your wife im alive realize realize realize ive already found this thing you call a soulmate...its held in the heart of a girl who refuses to break...

Je me demande parfois si c'est vraiment vrai un mot volant de çà et là de soleil ni d'étoiles pour me donner
la faim en haut et en bas il va a étouffé le rouleau du tambour triste a battu fera vous miroite sur la mer ?
l'aube était verte pomme douce comme le lit dans la terre cher un je sais que vous allez dire que les ombres
de nuit tombaient rapidement quand mer-remonte ont transpercé nos solitudes une histoire très remarquable ceci
est augmenté et l'ambre était le coucher du soleil sur la rivière me donne la faim j'ai vu avec ouvre des yeux
tout dans et tout sans moi a formé de beauté seul

Dear ___,
Noone ever taught me how to pray
so perhaps you're wearing headphones or earmuffs
and Im just talking to wallpaper. But if so...
then why
is touch still betrayal on a certain spot of my back
that i always knew resembled
a tiny casket?
then why
do i believe in
the white teeth and green sweater of the girl
who smiled at me today, really smiled
even though her right sleeve was pinned up
because confidence placed no arm
there to wave with?
then why
am I in love with this water-logged camel
we call earth
walking the avenues
with Iscariots holding their terminal blood,
waving man-made flags of victory
over bodies that resemble
sleeping birds?

I tried to plug in my halo last night.
the socket sparked
and then nothing.
Im not sure if i expected anything anyways...

Thank you for sin
so that I may be reminded
of the beauty in imperfection and
that a dying man
may not be dying at all.
Thank you
for allowing me that teeth gritting feeling
of withholding a cry every time a deck is shuffled
and out sits seven rows to play.
Thank you
for listening to the "ums" and 'I forgot what i was talking abouts"
during our early morning conversations.

Im sorry but I know
your skin is thicker than onions or snow
so may
many of the "Oh Gods" you hear bemoan from my lips
be because I am reveling in the greatest gift
I was ever given: my body
my sanctuary
of so many others.

And may my fingertips be your compass needles
letting me press into love...
which leads me
always
back to
You.

Honey, you arent a soulmate waiting to happen. You're love waiting to happen. So go, kiss your lover like a run-on sentence. and I promise not to interrupt becoming a dream whispering throughout your mind. Because love is nothing but a grass lined path. through a forest that leads to a city that leads to the ocean that leads past smiling criminals on death row and homosexuals being beaten with crowbars and a man wearing a sequined dress in front of crowd waving bottles of ale...and past the sad empty eyesockets of someones arms shot up by heroin. Because, that could be you darling, That could be you inside of that syringe...being a mans addiction, being the cause of a mans shaking arms reading a porno at the far end of the PCH.

Saboda hold my heart and I can repeat good morning to anyone as used up as me. You saw me without judgement, with something all-shaking as Love, which everyone has been acting like they are afraid of using. Yet its really quite easy to be wrapped up in white and its really quite easy to manufacture your own feathered wings and its really quite easy to strap anyone you want in an electric chair. But honey, I would never do that to you, so why are you doing that to everyone else? You are no better...you know it wont go nowhere. And I want you to know your lack of destination is like a broken steering wheel but there is noone else on the road.

Thank you for allowing me to call you honey. Noone wants to attract bees to themselves anymore. because it is so hard. It is so hard to admit your wrong and that you have forgotten your beekeeper suit and you are waving streaming your arms crying for help.

I think now this man they call God...is a tiny figure in a calender holding an umbrella on the pavement and shouting "October!"

Pier 30/32
moon with her tummy looming backwards over sweetness
crying out for a breath amoung the plants
ocean all dressed up for supper sacrament with the family
bay bridge dangling its feet off of the buldings roofs
lights in its eyes dreaming of touching the sea glimmering connecting
our full faces construct fireworks
not just the head + heart kind
but the kind exploding deeply into the sky
the complete picture: right when we were told about the new states of emergency
showing us on the rails-yoga positions for the you have been where?
they came back again and again to pull us out of our respective western sky.
a line of fire that shot up as we ran across the stage.
northern lights walking on air to the beat [all is full of love]
a song about desired constellations:
shaking breaking the aging stars in my hands like dice.
she came as a moth. she came to find the big sercrets. but there were birds to be fed instead.

i am not quite sure where or when i dropped my heart on the pier,
but i am sure the people cleaning up will recieve a nice surprise
for the holidays.

very well, you liberals
when i go back to earth
and i have flung my soul into your eyes
eighty years have passed

i had a dream and i awoke with it
a smile has come to be
tripping up, falling down
backwards turn backwards

i love my hour of wind and light

il n'y avait jamais un bruit près du bois mais d'un
ils me demandent où j'ai été
une histoire très remarquable ceci est
un ciel qui n'a jamais connu le soleil, la lune ou les étoiles
soudainement, hors des manières foncées et feuillues
je sais pas où
apportez-moi la chanson douce

To act with awareness is freedom and to act without awareness is bondage.
The difference between freedom and bondage is awareness. Self-awareness is true awareness with reference to which the thought projected world is seen as a myth-as just a narration of an imaginative mind.

"Tell me," demanded the king, turning to his bewildered minister, waking up from an afternoon siesta. "Just a while ago I was a butterfly. Now, on waking up, I find myself to be a king. Which of these two experiences is the truth?"
The minister replied:
"Your Highness, doubtless, you are king - not a butterfly."
The king was not convinced. He said:
"O minister, how do you know? It might be that I am the king in the butterfly's dream!"

Viewed from the distance of the moon, the astonishing thing about the earth, catching the breath, is that it is alive. The photographs show the dry, pounded surface of the moon in the foreground, dry as an old bone. Aloft, floating free beneath the moist, gleaming, membrane of bright blue sky, is the rising earth, the only exuberant thing in this part of the cosmos. If you could look long enough, you would see the swirling of the great drifts of white cloud, covering and uncovering the half-hidden masses of land. If you had been looking for a very long, geologic time, you could have seen the continents themselves in motion, drifting apart on their crustal plates, held afloat by the fire beneath. It has the organized, self-contained look of a live creature, full of information, marvelously skilled in handling the sun.

I have been trying to think of the earth as a kind of organism,
but it is a no go...
it is most like a single cell.

Being a human, you’re required to be in unison: upright.

A gateway, an opening, a portal from one unerstanding to another. A clue to the meaning is found in the meditation
"I am, by thinly veiled design, the threshold to other dimensions. In my ending is my beginning. The initatory gateway awaits."
This is the seventh or last archetype in the cycle of development of primary beings. It represents the power found in completion. Seen as a closure, which is really an opening to another level of being.

eye it is late-time is alive or dare i say dead when my fingers run through these keys

leaves me dreaming of all beings feeling the effect of a word/wordz such as when it twirls swirling slowly creating beams of sun allowing the moons craters to grow into each other to gather the rays sliding sinking deep down low low low lovely into my little ladi heart--repair station-fire escape--have you found your-self one...too?

desire=clumsiness=inbetween=truth

you think of me in the hand of a street vendor, in the clank of a gate as my heart makes its exit below the city.
in a city that wears barest white, holding her gear against the lights of herself. when she walks-she.s your palm thinning against the winter sun.
her brother spits up the freeway-clenching me in a fist of calender numbers-scratching his back restlessly on the necks of redwoods.
when you are at the base of something you cannot possible judge its height.
not unlike your eyes fusing their behaving ovals into rambunctious octagons when your face is close to mine. like glances out of dark forest. like naked in the classroom.
but i.ve got to watch my sentimemtality. it.s loaded and right under my chin, i can smell the bullet, which reeks of fish thankful for the alternative use of the lead (no weights + bait this evening).
i.ve got to watch my back-it.s bending in the middle like wet wood trying to be something other than strict straight lines. it.s curving under the weight of my numbness retention. but still, even the wallpaper gives up around me,
so it.s hard not to follow the crowd.

and if she did remember...what would she feel?

mmm mmmaybe freedom summits flowing through dis forest i have been oh so graciouz-ly granted mista universe beat-is & piece-is swimmin cloudburst inside floating towards the coral under a gift global enough to satisfy Ear-th-be-sha-manik-C Cop-y-i-t glowing attempting vision of what the other side dis...like
ahh! slashing beating expanding soundz dropped aloud-its painful when I can not ex--plane--s ay my ships relation humaines map a-round-a blue con-tuRning grey wick-ED----sadats skin sandya oh second sabbah sermon---- flotter le long de la rivière rêvant de se tenir comment hors des heures nouvelle peau----selek-ta proof of something ne-v-er be-lie-v-e-D

I wait in blacklight for another waistline dedication
a backlit form to fornicate reflection behind
There is an obvious fear in my direction, this tactless stare
and my where-abouts still unknown to network news
Im still in that phosphorus disco ball
My love is pouring over fumbling coffee pots with yellowed fingertips
over real life conversations-like the deep end of the bathtub
where i can wait to hear some wisdom
Thats because-we're still waiting
We're still hanging on to that last word
lingering like the exclaimation of another lifeless being often does
But I drowned those differences in bathwater darling
to overcome compassion-with you.

And let me admit
I cant call it enough
Your form backlit
is a dream tithed
to strangers
in Mercutian form.

I want you to miss the lock
with your key repeatedly,
so i can open the door to a graph
of your entrance.
I want you to keep your old bicycle gears
in the attic, so that
when the lights go out,
they cast shadowpuppets like large cities,
for me to ride the streets.

I'd like you around, to round me.

More than a dozen
recollections
collecting at
the finger-tips
of the secular-spectator,
detecting pleasant
schemes between sheets.

This is sin,
the plain and unadultered
scholarly pursuit thereof.

coffee cream and sugar cubes
came dancing through my door
tempting me to maybe awake
and even ask for more!

dinosaur swagger. her breathcatcher on float mode for the night.
lava. fight.
flung my touch outta the car--slumber--you think i.m sleeping over.

love-jugs of it in me

ona plane--seeping thru distance drivi-ng m-i mind...ah thank you for de fearless alive-ness pouring out of dos mmm mm bass-linige requizite-real-time as of now its the same i do oh so believe but-t-t consistently so slightly bet-ween a surrealll-ism sense of what lies a-head rememberance was my num-ber hi-life undur mi sen-si...still more a greater reason to keep a-going...i looked above the eyelashes i crystallize to feed the sea waving long slender almost too thin skin slipping into whose blues see oh don-t worry was what could be a monu-ment in this cit-ie beatz flying high high high in the deep blackened sky...horizons breathe through the glass someone alllows a part of i-but-i must admit am far too mel---well---low to think to believe who said it was not possible honey close dancing talking to no one but a blow (nicely :) ) to my tactic child in the grass-blessed one breathing machine-lightening a dream

derived from an exchange with shall i call him the Break...

The story of civilization may sometimes be conveniently summarized as the story of man's unabating search for more and more sources of power. Almost every major movement in the history of human progress was brought about by the unlocking of some mighty source of power in nature.

The power of the wind, the power of water in motion, the power locked up in coal and in oil, steam power, magnetic power, electric power, and now, atomic power--man has tapped them all and harnessed them to the service of his needs and his desires. He has learned, in fact, to use even the mysterious power of thought, as shown by its increasing employment in war and peace.

There is one power, however, which people, in general, have not learned to use at all, or have refused, somehow, to use, in solving their individual as well as collective problems. This is the power of love. Either they have no faith in it, or they do not know how to use it effectively. One reason, probably, is that most people usually identify love with sex. As a consequence of this wrong attitude, they lose contact with its higher dimensions and superior possibilities, and thus find themselves unable to release its hidden and inexhaustible stores of energy. These people do not know that sex is but one of the many possible expressions of love, and that love has powers more abundant, more profound, and more significant than the power of procreation or the propagation of the species.

* * * * *

When Jesus told his disciples to love their enemies, he was not giving them, as some of us might suppose, a piece of stupid, even impossible, advice. On the contrary, he was telling them to use the greatest, most irresistible, power in the universe - the power of love. He did not advocate the use of any kind of physical or material force. He very clearly advocated the use of the spiritual force of love. He knew very well that most men would counter hate with hate. That is the ordinary way. That is the human way. In advising the employment of love against hate, however, he underscored a new technique. This new technique would seek to tap for man's use an inexhaustible source of power--the heart of God himself. This extraordinary way would release from the depths of human personality, where God is, the power of love for use in the solution of human problems. This is not the ordinary human way. This is the divine way. It is the way God would solve a problem. In effect, Jesus told his disciples to be divine, to cease to be merely human, to become the sons of God that they really are by behaving like sons of God, and to solve their problems in the only way God would solve his problems, and that is, by the exercise of the power of love.

Some of us might think that loving our enemies is just some kind of moral strategy. The truth, however, is that it is not just a bit of moralism. In fact, it is technology of the highest order. It is spiritual technology. It is human engineering at its best.

Many people think that love is just a sentiment good for poetry or for novels. How easy it is to forget that love is a law as inescapable in the world of human relations as gravitation is in the world of physical objects. But it is precisely just that - an inexorable law of thought and emotion the violation of which can bring about broken hearts and broken lives just as the violation of the law of gravitation can bring about broken arms and broken legs. Being a law, its operation involves energy transformation. The energy of love is the most unique kind of energy in the universe. It is creative, it is intelligent, and it is wise. Its transformations are the very expression of the Divine Mind itself. It fills the entire universe, but its mightiest seat of operation is in the heart of man. Every object in nature manifests, but man and man alone can manipulate it by the use of his mind and thus demonstrate the workings of God's mind. This energy of love, this power of love, which is the very energy of creation itself, is the technique which Jesus advised his disciples to use when he told them to "Love your enemies."

It is not quite correct to say that the technique of "Love your enemies" is a new one. It appears new only to those who have been accustomed to the more common technique of "Hate your enemies." In fact, it is a very ancient technique among those who have discovered that God is love, as the fourth gospel very clearly states.

All the great teachers of humanity from the earliest times taught it and demonstrated it in their lives. Buddha, Mahavira, Lao Tzu, Confucius, Zoroaster, Nanak, Mohammed, St. Paul--to mention only a few--all declared in varying ways that love is the law as well as the fulfilling of the law and that without it no peace, no happiness, no perfection is possible.

It is pretty obvious, however, that very few people, despite the weight of Christ's authority behind it, believe in the technique of "Love your enemies." Most of us think it too much to expect of mere man. But that is just the point. Christ did not for one moment assume that we are just mere men. He said very strongly that we have the power to become sons of God, if only we had faith, faith in him and in the power of love he demonstrated. A little thought is sufficient to convince us that it is the power of love which enables man to rise above his human limitations and perform superhuman feats, whether it be the love of truth which impels scientists to never-ceasing research, or the energy of passion which creates literature or music, or erects a Taj Majal.

Love has many powers. Let us begin with the more obvious ones.

* * * * *

Love has the power to create happiness. This fact is so common an experience to most people that it is not even necessary to mention it. And if the happiness it creates is sometimes short-lived, the reason probably is that the love that creates it is still imperfect.

It is trite to say that the scarcity of happiness among many people is due to the corresponding scarcity of love among them. It is also commonplace to say that the unhappy man is almost invariably also an unloving man.

Yes, these ideas are so elementary that we probably tire of hearing them. But the fact is that we seem to have such a facility to ignore them, or to forget them.

We forget that selfishness is almost always at the root of all unhappiness and that love, unselfish love, is the basis of all happiness. The man who says, "I am unhappy," actually proclaims to the world what he would be ashamed to admit openly, namely, that he is selfish. To be happy it is necessary to love, and to love truly it is necessary to be completely unselfish. Only the unselfish heart is capable of love and only the loving heart is capable of happiness.

There is a great law of happiness which, to my mind, should rank in importance with any other great discovery in science. It is the law which says: No man is capable of happiness who is incapable of loving one other person than himself.

I call this the Minimum Happiness Law.

* * * * *

One power of love which makes it most unique is its power to create goodness, or at least to awaken it. Love is the basic goodness, and if it be true that love alone can awaken love, then it follows that love alone can awaken goodness. It is a fact in psychology that a child raised in an atmosphere of hate generally becomes cruel. A cruel man is very often an unloved man who, almost surely, was once an unloved child.

It is true that goodness cannot be imposed from without, that it must be a growth from within. Nevertheless, this inward growth cannot even start without the stimulating touch of love. Theoretically, a child raised among wolves would probably grow to howl like a wolf. Love is the power which makes a child grow into a human being. It is the humanizing force in the human family.

Goodness may awaken love, but it may also awaken envy or resentment or even positive hate. We may love a man because he is good, but we may also learn to dislike him because he presents a contrast to our badness. Love, however, can never fail to awaken goodness, sooner or later. The reason is that love is more basic than goodness. We do not say that God is loving because he is good; rather we say God is good because he is full of love. Even a hardened criminal may become good, if he should fall in love; and the love that awakens within him can become his resurrection.

* * * * *

When Romeo saw Juliet on the balcony, he was so taken by her beauty he exclaimed, "That is the dawn and Juliet is the sun." How beautiful Juliet was to Romeo, even if she might have looked unlovely to his family. How handsome Romeo was to Juliet, even if he might have seemed unattractive to her family.

George Santayana once said that beauty is simply pleasure or happiness objectified. If this be true, then beauty is a creation of love, because happiness is created by love. But whether true or false, one thing love can do: it can irradiate the face of a lover with beauty and attractiveness.

Perhaps, it is just some kind of magic. But the fact is that the magic is there, the magic of love. And if this magic can be lasting, then beauty can be everlasting. Never, never will beauty pass away, as long as there is love.

Perhaps, when in love, one sees not the body but the soul. Perhaps love is clairvoyant and can penetrate the veil of flesh and see the radiant spirit within. Perhaps old age and ugliness are the illusion, and youth and beauty are the reality which, however, we cannot see, as long as we are not in love, or have ceased to love. Love, then, is the vision of the eternal, the experience of the never-dying, the never-ending.

Perhaps we were not born to grow old and die. Perhaps we were born to be always young and to live forever. But somehow we have forgotten the wisdom of love, we have lost the power of love. So now, for lack of love, we must grow old and we must die. But not quite, no, not quite, because, somehow, however so small and however so transient, we are able to experience the wonder of love. Somehow, sometimes we are able to lift the veil of time and behold ourselves as we really are in eternity, as gods because we are all children of God, when we fall in love. Blessed, blessed experience. Then we cease to be merely human. We become citizens of God's everlasting kingdom. We stand forth as divine beings. Then we wield the mighty power of love, and we become young again and beautiful again and everlasting again.

If we could only be in love every minute of our lives. If we could only be completely without hate, without anger, without rancor, without malice, without vengeance, without fear, without worry, without envy, without lie, without delusion, without cruelty, without greed, without selfishness, without any negative thought or emotion whatever; then, I am sure, we would have no sickness, no old age, no death.

This should not be looked at as a startling formula of youth and immortality. In fact, it is commonplace among the declarations of the spiritual teachers of mankind. Buddha promised Nirvana to anyone who could abolish the fires of hate, lust, and greed. Christ promised the kingdom of heaven to anyone who could be completely full of love for mankind. Modern science itself, particularly in the field of psycho-somatic studies, is not without indications that sickness, old age, and a shortened life are consequences of unwise thoughts and unwise emotions. Especially are the orientations of selfishness and hate emphasized as the principal causes of many psycho-somatic ailments.

No doubt, someday, science will be able to show that love is indeed the elixir of youth and immortality.

* * * * *

There is no way of explaining just now in terms of the concepts of official psychology the various powers of love which Eastern psychology recognizes.

Love, according to the sages of the East, has the power to confer wisdom. The Bible declares this when it says that love is the wisdom of God. This is called Prajna, or the power of direct cognition of anything.

Love confers the power to ascertain or discern the purposes of things, even the purpose of the whole universe itself. This is called Dhi.

Love has the power to transform anything into the nature of the divine, the power to make things holy. This is called Medha, or sacrifice.

Love has the power of unification, of merging the individual into the universal. This is called Shemushi.

Love has the power of inspired speech, the power to build words. This is called Dishana.

Love confers spiritual birth, the birth into the kingdom of heaven. This is called Manisha.

Love gives the power of faith. This is called Mati.

Love confers the power of eternal memory which is the basis of empiric consciousness. This is called Smriti.

These are the eight powers of love which the Eastern sages prefer to call Buddhi, or Love-Wisdom.

* * * * *

One more word of advice, and it is very important. Many and wondrous are the powers of love. It creates happiness. It awakens goodness. It generates wisdom. It conserves health. It prolongs youth. It creates beauty. It induces long life. It confers heaven. It does many things which are pleasant and desirable.

But be careful, be very, very careful. Love without selfishness, love without thought of self. Love not for the things love can give, even heaven itself. Love only for love's own sake.

Otherwise, even the things love can give may disappear like smoke in the air.

this would be my seventh-my lack of balance-causing such a deliberate disobediance...enthralled to back-slide by faul, exorbitant coitus-upheld by me-on my own accord

my body
is a
temple
just put your...hands
on my
belly

above that which it stands
the floor or the ground
upward from a suface
to which entity rises
raised to a red heat
transformed into tangles
suspended before a fireplace

this is forgetting:
moon-drenched ivory, and grey flesh
made hollow with lead

Earthquake Survivor-
smoking-youngsters-
swearing-tea-
spitonyourhands
and you can splinter every tree

chasin my popsicle stone a current through crown cause Today my dustings be mused-maybe-fewnfar between too embedded-static pages of deadspeak

anyways

I.m sound, like oak.
Try to uproot me.

mis. mis. mis. mis. desire.

say it with a. beat.

mmmmmmmmmmmmm m m m m m m

dance between Grace and Fire

thats the secret!
its out!
on the table!
alive!
aware!
believed!

now all i have to do is...remember

...towards not being anyones center of gravity or wanting to love not to lean over towards another and fall but feel within one a flexible steel upright parallel to the spine but longer from which to stretch ones own grave pringboard the out flying spirits trampoline...

Crushed through-ly through the sun to set a new opinion on top of my moon-s allowing these it-sy bit-sy vein-s to be blessed with such a cherry red tender-ness...Leafs of green settling in-between hanging grasping the cornered edges freely falling in different sizes simply trying to breathe

Pillows mound around bamboo shreds-a mix of desire got lost in the gap multiplying quickly evenly unwillingly - wrapping around slices of cold green watery lead and cubes of a dream cut into pieces to be made easier to digest - positive outcome was in these eyes yet existence lies in some sort of daily make believe under the vines

So-why is the time of love spread far across the country underlying dreaming? Interconnected flights of reason - I want to share my whole world and even see what-s in-side that you wear so tightly ever lightly - in scene taken through the edges of whats underneath - i do dare to show through a screen where im kept away from harms sleep

i say these things below this above wording mostly in the way of peeking into my box of thoughts and movies being played out of the foreign cobblestones lining the multi umbrellas holding atop heads wrapped in a scarf and letters that i could never pronounce-on repeat-cafes...things i do not understand


impulse = i dont think im supposed to live here


analyze = oh no it will grow on me things take time yes yes everything takes time


...things i do not understand-flying high atop the grey blue rocks appearing as though these eyes cannot see the color that keeps us alive-woven patterns of teal peach slipped in...mum could there have been a different way? life supports me i am safe according to the green card sitting amongst roots orchid shimmers yet theres no sign of flowers-yellow reaching out laying low dreaming of holding the sky high above itself to support the unnessacery weight sir world likes to oh so loosely throw about-create a V laced inside backside held together just a can of spray paint-roman i can dream still of swirls eyes closed mushrooms floating through stutter hey hey oh hey

mmmm






thank you thank you thank you

well...

what to do-oh what to do...