Spiritual Fire

SPIRITUAL FIRE

Broad, the way which taken
Unbought, and unsold
Opens up, like the narrow pitch, like the eye from
night,
Which broadens among the stars.
Atheric pulse, within summoned,
Like a singular drum, pounding the narrows
And from the cave, a vision, takes form, steaming in
the stomach
The guttural growls of space,
Deepening, hence, the march, like crawling hands
Across the dial of time, spun and wound
In infinite parade.
For what narrow design before, was summoned,
Taken and kept like a hidden flame,
Whispered sacred words which turned to stone,
Solidified in the fire like ash,
And kept solemn in graves.
To have burned away the night, and what is left is the
ruins of dead time,
Smoldering embers, through which light was barely
kept,
Beating and bleating amongst the folds of time,
In which the heavens were alight,
With the full thrust and fury of life’s fyre.
What was given and taken bled to soil like ash
And rose to starry ceiling like steam and smoke,
And the waters of life which churned the oceans
Were called back and forth, to and fro.
In such taking and giving, all is unconstitutional,
Summed only in the waters of life themselves, which
drew brief figures
In craft, they were like light sketches of the masters
Where the dial turned and churned,

And resummoned the parchment to the purity and
emptiness of light.
O, air, the draft, which breathed the caverns and
tombs of the dead
Stood, nary the walls but with the thin thread they
were weaved,
And unbroken out of obedience, fear, forgetting,
For who could remember for why and what they stood,
And yet they stood, wavering like a flag in the breeze.
For hands and eyes, hips and arms, they stood, and yet,
Like great unconquered cities they were words like
prisons
Works like chains,
And the iron forge of time kept the vowels which stood
for bodies,
Already perishing in decay, already reveling the
untempered hidden soul,
Stampeding like a bull, hungry, in its red eyes the heart
of the forge,
Bursting from the chest,
Marking the cage, and streaming from the body,
Like a revolution of the blood.
Through blood and breath is kept, the full brevity of
the stars
Unfolded in space and time, the entirety of the cosmos,
Contained within, the maker, which stirred and
churned,
Within itself, like that broad ocean which summons the
marker hence,
To play and to gain, to know and to lose unknowing,
To remain in the solidity of the last essence;
The fyre in the ash, and the fyre in the smoke,
Even away, from the far corners of the burning,
The truth of the flame is kept.

The maker thrashed, like a thumbprint, the essence of
a spiraling,
Out and away amongst time, the player, making in
space
Afforded by the gyrations of the hips of black space,
Became one and two
Diverse in the explosion
Which brought together the friction and the fury,
The fictive illusion, which pronounced the word
And the separation of the mouth, through which
speaking, brief solidity,
Sung its song and hid away in the caverns of time,
Folds and flesh like sediment and stone
Within the maker, burned the fyre,
Transformed and shaded the flesh; coloured the soul
Depth and bright hues of blood, the earthen green of
trees,
And the black of aether and ash,
Knew at last the colorless light, the spectrum from
which it flew and gained
Parallax essences, fugues and faiths, and wrestled with
countless numbers,
Additives of the soul, veins like tributaries, within
themselves resembled
For they too flew from the night like thunder and
lightning,
For they too flew with broad veins, like tree limbs,
And in convulsions of the night, resembled bodies
And in brief time, grew angelic wings,
Disappearance,
Absconded, the soul,
Without form
Free and liberated, without stoic tones, without reason,
without the guarded ground of the garden, in the beat
that takes flight and rises

In the beaker, to the heady insight of the flesh,
The eye of the spirit, lo, pronouncing,
These words which take the shape of the night and are
their apparition,
Freed hence, to dance among the ruins like black
shadows and colorless light,
Long which faded the wound, brought away from the
laughing dance of time by the turning, the wringing of
hands of nights and days,
Passing, and passing away.
Walking, the stony path, there and hence,
Many wanderers of same, confused and addled,
Regular and tree limbed, cat eyed, stony faced,
careless,
Merchants and beggars, lizards and lotus
From the plant form and changing, yet again,
With new eyes, stumbled upon the path of loving, that
remains,
The changing hands and skin of the universe like
seasons,
That which is made and invented retains the signature
essence,
From that forge which is all places and all times,
From that fyre which is the beauty and the remains,
the stumbling and the summons,
From birth and to death alike, dissolved in the truth of
the nature of being.
Birthless and deathless, what reigns is fyre, nameless
and faceless,
And yet life, full and bursting,
Plenum which shouts and steams, razing forth, t’ward
its own name and face and nature,
Which is parallax and infinite, of a thousand faces and
a thousand names
And yet so certain, of this next moment,

Which comes to pass in the silence which is that of a
thousand noises,
Unseen and unheard, yet ever-present symphony,
What is taken as silence is the present completion
Of all things in their perfect forms,
Light and sight of the infinite body, each taken eyes,
The mirrorless guise which is the cast of light;
From each angle and direction, a new hue which is
cast
Off the flesh of Being,
Flesh of stone and flesh of sea, nameless color
And yet by the dance of light, the emergence of the
notion of the passage of time,
Like growth of reeds.
So too, does the guitar of the air expand, each string
plucked and tuned
By the changing face of the seasons,
Hued by the rising and falling leaves; the tension of
opposites,
Like a breath which turns the air lightly.

Speaks the night, nameless, faceless,
Speaks the day, plaintive, for all to see,
Thus goes the way of the winding,
The play of light which gives and takes,
Strips and wakes, dawns and bathes,
And perishes, seemingly without meaning.
Comes the call of the threshing bird,
Comes the carrion call,
Dawn and dawn and dawn to mourning,
Til there is no call at all.
The silence of the nature overtakes,
The brushing hand refines,
The fury of that which gives and takes,
Is that which too unwinds -
The reaping and the cleaving,
Of green to gold and black,
What’s gone from gold and dawning
Is naught to gain a’back.
For the spectre of the meaning past,
Like the spectre of the word,
Lingers in the air of the aching mind,
Like the calling of the bird.

The ease of the art, which flows from the mouth of a
copperhead
Into the ground. All dirt, dissembled, in the fabric of
the whole,
Aching and plain, yearning from the remains -
Is the dirge of history, sung solemn,
By one black mouth,
Hiding a smile in the factories of time,
Churning black coal, hissing, and from the cold sweat
of the spirit
Rises building blocks of time.
Solidified, heated and cooled in the engine,
Chases the rabbit into the hedgerow, spins the planet
out of time,
But for the final dance, of coming together, and
coming apart,
Two and one thousand lovers.
Symphony of time, and all gladness, the gold to gray,
the blue to black,
The sky’s color and fading ash of flesh,
Threshed, beaten and whipped, like a recipe of steps,
Gyrating, shaking, thundering upwards and
downwards,
Like a raising hand to meet god,
Like a drill into the soil.
Rotted, the corn, upon the vine, vibrant and dies,
And from the bee’s open hand, the milk and honey,
Poured upon the burial ground
To raise the dead, like twisted vines,
Transfigured into new forms.
From the jungle, there, goes all time,
Into the wild undergrowth, beaten brush, where fires
ravage,
Where ants build empires, and where molecules and
minerals are ground down in the frictive dance
To dust and diamonds, sand and stone.

Do you hear the sound of the great grinder, threshing
the dawn,
While gravity hangs overhead,
And the planets attract, in the blackness which aches
for return,
Far over the fields of Aeon, in the portal
Through which the living and the dead shall pass,
To transcend life and death?
In the symphony lie the rising and dying notes, the
fading daylight over the valleys, carved with a brutal
hand
Jutting cliffsface, an eternity of trees,
Far in the wilds, where the cries of the living and dead
alike
Are mingled with the fallow, twisting, mangled worms
Who churn the flesh of the soil.
Who could describe the beckoning of the black mouth,
the final gravity,
Where all magnetism returns?
The smiling face of the lover is bourne to sky in the
cold,
Like migrating birds, cast off for where the day does
not turn over
Like coins on the eyelids of the dead.
In the soil lies mingled miles of the dead,
Where there are no twisting faces in the gloom, no
presencing
Nor absence. Where it cannot be said to come,
Nor has anything gone - wary and weary,
Marching toward the tomb, where life rests, beyond
infinity.
Words take up no room and dance nothing there, in
the still
A veil of gravity which takes them, and gives them the
impossible choice -
But to remain here forever, and utter words of silence,

In the empty room,
Where gold turns to dust, and jewels glitter, frozen in
the haze of midmorning,
Unreachable, and yet impeccable
In the vision of the mirage.
For what brief power has taken, like the raging fist of
the panther,
Boiling, seething blood, charged and taken with the
glittering black and red tooth of desire,
The reed that was played on the flute of war,
Where the rivers ran red but for a brief moment,
And returned to their gushing, ineffable, clear blue.
Gave and took the charge of sex and death, where
bodies meet by the dozen
And are baked into death like the crust of the earth.
How is the air glad to receive their breath, an
exhalation,
A vision of athletic grandeur -
Like warriors of time, they take their bow, and leave
beyond the veil of the curtain,
Swinging in the breeze,
This whole life and world like nothing but an open
window -
Taking to the tolling bell, and the eaves of corn,
The wide, stretching plains
And the animals kept there, time in the beating of their
hooves,
And the bleating of their calls.
To the aether, they run, goaded like bulls in the
theatre,
Charging forth and hence,
To madness and black death, they run, streaming
Like the threads of blood which make up their flesh
And have wound the fabric of this universe like a ball
of twine,
Batted around by a black cat of the stars,

Miserable cosmos, or hilarity, chosen with a pull of the
face,
The act of the coming dawn; the act of the leaving day.
Beyond paradox knows, the abeyance which does not
leave,
The presence which is not kept, but is all fleeting,
In the diamond mine of a thousand faces, refracted in
brief mirrors,
Like a face seen in a coming wave, streaming water;
The unfurling of a face in a river, a raging fire,
A flashing reflection in the glint of the sun,
And then gone, lost to peril, agony, laughter
And the call of the sun, burning forth and revealing
nothing.
For what was hid in the fire was the name of the
madness, the art kept hid, within the painting, the
delusion of the theatre, the calling of the name
And the rising and falling of the flesh like loaven bread,
The burning of the lilted wax; the echoing mirror of
time,
A reflection down a turning corner of the hall
Where all is seen and taking leave
And where life is like a prophecy, a brief vision,
Like what was stolen and kept in the night;
An incision into the truth, with a black knife which was
made of absence,
The perilous stuff which took death and was granted
life.
The stuff of madness, where nothing is kept but infinite
choice,
And nothing remains but the presencing;
The calling forth of the great and beckoning shadow,
Which only calls forth into blackness; the night itself
Becoming this candle
Through which I might see.
Myself, composed of a thousand dawns, and a moniker

Which is given and taken, and turned over like a coin
In the palm of the hand of death, which is also like an
arm in the body of god,
A limb of blackness, through which the vision of time
spirals,
And choices are made like chance.
One who takes a thousand roads in the pitch black of
night
And who is always and again at the crossroads of
nothing and all time
The infinite and specific finitude.
For who is the one who agonizes over a blade of grass,
the shattered mosaic of light through the trees,
And this love, with her face,
How long she will take before the morning breaks -
For who is the one who is neither living nor dead
And composed of the atomic?
Like a vein I run, infinite parallel grounds
Through the lawn of time
A universal knife,
Which gives and takes my bones
In a shaking dimension
Where each decision
Is an incision
Into the fabric of truth
Leaving what is and always was
Like a knife which does not cut
And yet, is like a revelation
Of the parallax black.
What laughable choice?
But the art which sends the eye of the shepherd
To the corners of the cosmos
To inspect the lone black rock, and the twisting of the
mangled vine,
The rising of the fruit;
The vision of the sun

What is the psyche responds to the psyche itself
Glass mirror of water
Thru gradients peers
The ever loving eye,
Thru gradients of sediment and stone,
Thru gradients of panther and prowl
Thru gradients of design
Thru gradients of feeling it razes,
Razor-backed lite of the sky;
In thinking, like thunder,
The action of thinking itself incises,
Hungry for the art, in artifice
And making
Player, of the jungle, as it dawns and yawns,
Yalps and scalps the hair, barks and hungers the water
As it flows, ever forward, jumps and startles and starts
Breaks and resumes making, in a new flow
Syncopated
The beating and bleating, of the earthen-skin drum,
Resurrected these old memories, their lot,
Like sand in a jar, ashen potteries,
Makings like blackened diamonds among mud,
Volcanic rock, and faces, skeletal, weaving streaks
In starry nights, their fold like blankets, silken, forgetful
In their base pleasure,
Fitting fingertips and hands seamlessly
Into the blackening, their smooth night flesh
Lingering before the one,
Wrought in the sex, black fire,
Lingering in the sex, black night
Unsolidified, melten wax, in the flowing mood
In the time before solid, did not know so clear as water

But with information, like the plasmic blood
Which flows thru the universal veins,
Like a flute, played by a player lost in ecstasy,
In the place where being wild is true,
Ecstasy is the found place.
Go there, and beat the drum,
Heart thumping the veins of time;
Their pulse an expanding and contraction,
Their pulse moving the flue of an open door,
And the doorway, shaking and lingering,
And the chain of darkness, in the hallway
Of all old mirror and images,
Paintings and times,
Pangs of longing and remorses,
In the mind’s eye, imagination,
Slung so clearly like a translucent gem,
The undefined and indescribable longing of something
new.
Presence, thy mystery,
Like eyes in the jungle,
Peering out from beyond the Black Forest,
Eyes that beckon, with hidden body,
Spirit manifest, in the kettle and kernel of the soul,
Pure incubation, upon the fiery ground, heated and
cooled,
Like this world was a great pyre of the mind
Which steams and furiously declarative,
The newness, far throng, the grunting and groaning,
The new patch of language which sprouts strange
flower,
Of a thousand eyes; the listless listening,
The yawning and the babe,
The journey with which the thought was swaddled,
Idea, pure spirited, forever the child;
Unconquered and close to pure light,

Descending and ascending the great stairs,
The spiral spyre of time; gazing out from upon the
balcony,
The garret, upon the winding river backed snake,
O Time; her ode, like a dragon, kept hid the treasures,
Neath the mountain lake,
Like buried in the ashes of a thousand fires,
Compacted by snowfall,
Signed by river and rain,
Remembered by the body which sinks and rises and
sings in sleep,
Lilts and dawns itself, breaks the light in equal
measure;
Cutting and riding, goes the sign, within the kettle,
boils and cools, the blood built empire of the mind,
Taken this wax like wood, made this wormwood face;
digestive,
Spurs the body forward with spice and fire,
Fire equal to fire, taken in the mouth and incensed the
burning mantle
For in which consciousness sat and was bathed in fire
In pure meditation, the witness, thru which the body
dances
Like a shadow upon the wall
In a cloister, the womb of stars and snakes,
Swaddled in this neighborhood of constellations,
Crossed by lightning, which illuminated this axial
choice -
Planetary hermitage of the soul,
Which taken in, each spirit and psyche,
Imbibed the sacrament, river and water, flesh and
blood,
Oxen and buffalo, plains animal and drippings of
green sunlight,
Plant with shaking facial hand, reaching up and singing
to the sun,

Reaching down and singing to the soil,
Two faces of black night have come upon this axis,
Each reaching with privations of eternity
This singer, with hands and arms and head,
Threadlike veins of instrumentation, strummed the
string,
And sung the chord of a woodwind, strange flesh of
song
Thru which light is like a vessel-bound spirit, enlivened
to the ground
And heels of fyre, which quickened her pace,
Lit from the fiery core of the womb, bubbling and
boiling the beaker
Reflects the face, between perishments, lingering at this
threshold,
The gates of eternal and private solitudes.
Dualism, the vessel sings, thru the mouth,
Heated in transformation,
Brief lodgings,
Heath of eternity, there comings and goings,
There changing formations of wax, brandishing hands
Of the violet gods, their faces like thunderbolts,
Breaking
Visions in the night
Returned, elemental
To the place of forever,
The psychic fire light

The fifth element, of metal,
Chiseled man, in his mental experiences,
Upon the platform of man, is the artistry
Through which the divine communicates
And shapes his spiritual form.
Down thru the vision of man,
Is the lightning which is the eye, met by eye,
Eye of nature, in brush and undergrowth,
The eye of the bestial form,
Met in face with the eye of the divine.
Man’s consciousness is then an interlocutor,
An intersection, a crossroads,
Through which walks, in a hall of mirrors world
Between beast and God.
Higher and lower forms, between the infinite,
Man is forged in the fire of spirit,
Transformed by his experiences.
Carved and chiseled in the burning night,
Through which there is no sight but insight;
A thousand eyes wander in the dark,
Where but this eye is illuminated within.

Stowed away, in protective mediocrity,
Man’s world spins - between pleasure and nothingness,
Tolling away his days in the city of ruins
Where the sun rises and sets, and rises again
Like the ticking of the clock, he bids his passing hours,
A gambler of broken toys, an auctioneer
Of dirt and dust, and fools gold.
Swayed by his emotions; rocked on the endless ship,
Of seas bright and stormy, browbeaten and tired,
He clings to the mast with devotion,
The mast of language and story, the mast of the
dreams of others
Set and dyed; pulled over his eyes.
Such a man never sees, never goes, never stays;
Is pinned by his inbound mind
Which whips and bays him, closed in
Like the corners of his vision.
In mind’s eye, derivative,
And only swayed to anger, or swayed to grief,
Naught swayed to creative passion and the fury of
creation,
His blood dulled hues of black and gray; his days
hushed,
Caged in silence, man among men;
Man among the words of other men;
Their words never their own.

Far beyond desire’s path, what can be given and what
can be taken,
Tolls the siren of the dead, slow song, pitched in
frequency,
Like valleys and cliffsface,
Solidified the dead, rock’d to slow warble,
Melancholic, framed by stone.
Who so calls, among the blackness, called life
Given and taken, bought and sold, and flitted from
supposed destinies
Like moth to firelight,
So the living toiled and died, in between obscurities,
Between strange gravities, always called onward,
Beyond the realm of incorporation.
Lost - the body, lost - to the rogue zone,
Of time out of time,
Of streetlamps buzzing, and the quiet hashish lounges,
Checked with cardplayers and gin, sugar coffees
In the dead of night, lost in swirling smoke,
Stargazers, for want of nothing -
Have obtained this blackness, gone from life and the
flirting incontinence,
Consistency, like a burning stone,
Guarded the gates and realm of the dead.
What remains of the living - the buzzards pick at their
flesh.
For the realm of the dead is the realm eternal,
Last of desire’s picking, like grapes upon the vine,
Ripeness grasped by beckoning hand in dreams,
Strewn the meat to garden’s graveyard,
Tombstones of day’s sunlight; from spring to fall
Go the ills and dawns of man,
Once blinded by the glittering gold
Of the untouchable,
The scalding light
Of levitating suns, like cards,

Themselves strewn across the table awaiting blackness;
The brief levitation of their spirits,
Lilting at a song, or a smile.
Movement’s illusion, and the fear,
Desperate hands to give and take, and clutch at
ripeness,
As the usher birds warble and scream,
Upon the stage of eternity, and the briefness of the
player,
Upon his cordlike tricks, a mortal coil,
Dressed in black, gold, and red,
Made up to look like a fool,
Forever on time and always late, arrives and speaks his
peace,
A dialogue like a deck of cards,
Forever turning and churning, and a common mystery,
Victory or defeat.
Burning, yearning for what is beyond, unstuck history,
And the future, evergreen, for what is wrought,
From the fire, like a smith, he promises,
Forever and takes none,
The hands of nothing spin the dial of time,
And number’s irrelevance.
To have stood on brief eternity like a foothold,
And falling forever, he grasps nearest pleasure,
Like a grape or a diamond.
In trust to the flesh, and ecstasy, life wavers in the
breeze,
Leaved, and brushed aside go the bodies of men,
Like a forest floor, turpentine and mushrooms,
Desires lit aflame,
Whispered upon the tongues of the dead,
And their repetition, like a drum echoing throughout
history,

The pounding of the feet; the rushing,
And the labors of time, excommunicated by drought,
Led on by the stars,
And cast wearily into boat and barrel -
Men, like moths,
Fall near eternity and pray to her idols -
A kiss, a time, a sunset, a fugue, a river,
All rushing beside his reflection,
Their incontinence, a brief time of his glory,
Wished to bottle,
Bottled the dead.
Loosened hand from foothold, the eternal mirage,
Glinting upon the carousel of time,
Carnival of pulled faces, to agony and ecstasy returned,
As the circling hours tick, sun’s guide
Towing across the skylight,
Hands gazing through a window, touch the flesh
Touch the bones, and their passing moment -
Ground to eternity’s dust, shed in the fire of their
burning,
And agony’s past to ashes.
To know her name, then,
Truth, Beauty, there continence,
Time out of time,
Suspended,
The diamond which reflected all things,
There untouched;
Without possession but the pure heart, metaphysical
anatomy,
Pulses and pitches,
And which labors attempt to achieve her,
Fall short, the presence of being,
Ungrasped in slavery,
Cart and mule, city’s paradise, drugged union, the
depth of sleep -

And all world’s gold.
Mistaken - warring, the cycling axis,
From day to nightfall, from desecration to iconomachy,
All that faced time is defiled,
All that put face and pitch to the song is taken,
Jolted from harmony into the chaos of oblivion,
The unreconciliation of time; the fury of that which
could not be had,
And yet beckons, desires taking and being taken.
Impossible game, there forth, but peering through the
lens of the diamond,
The rapture of the theatre; the brief forgetting
Which sprung rogue highwaymen, theft of time;
The obsession of the gold and jewel as it shined,
From all else but within,
Mined to the dead, to the depth and bowels of the
earth,
Extracted and fed to fissure, from coal to dynamite,
From the black mine to the suddenness of death -
Steel to atomic eternity,
Smeared blackness upon its doorstep;
Like a shadow left time,
Not even a brief moment of oblivion.
Take life, tossed it in hand like a coin,
And fed it to a beggar,
Who pressed the smooth metal to his lips,
Life pulsing, ne’re confined.
Metals wrought within, in the black light of the
container,
Flashes the fire, the digestive motion, bowels churning
of the earth
Like an ore this planet is wrought, and man like God
Thrown into vessel and in his transparency,

Burns til his bones are grey, exhausts the might of the
body,
For far mightier spirit,
Peers from within, using these eyes;
Motility of this flesh and stone, moves cliffsface and
sleeps
In the ticking clock of the valley,
Beneath death, submerged in the shadows,
As the sun moves like a dial of time
Above the resting body, purgates and fumes,
Chases impossible things, all of his nature,
Like a dog chasing its tail, a man chasing the glint in
his eye;
The light cast into the water,
Illuminating a pearlish stone.
From the dregs of infinity, wrests the polished
diamond,
Flame among flame,
And yet reflects, like a siren, that selfsame infinity,
From whence it came,
Pure light among light,
Pure consciousness among consciousness,
Without colour or fugue, a lilting paradise of all
chords,
Silent stillness which is the coalescence of the song,
And what agony and ecstasy, too, have in common -
Fiery presence,
Stilled the heart of the deep,
Fury of the first fire, which still burns, to this day,
In each beating of the heart,
Their agony of reunion,
Each exhalation a beat, a separation, a return,
To the vibrating cord,
Which danced the sky in a distance,
Of attractor bodies, planets and stars unto blackness,
Movement unto disappearance.

Ask where the bodies go, of the dead,
Suspension, the flitting vision, and absence,
Where it once stood and stands, filled with negation.
The word absconded into the silence of truth,
Neither taken nor owed, without polarity,
And thus without the tension of meaning, or language.
For desire’s magnetism,
The stillness of that which is beyond desire,
The wholeness beyond incorporation,
The unity beyond forgetting.
Live there, wandering, forgotten,
In only brief moments remembered, desire’s glinting
tail,
In the corners of the eyes, summoned in a poet’s
speech,
Time out of time, glimpsed in time,
And forgotten again, swallowed like a cresting whale
Beneath the blue black waves -
Eternity, like this ocean, of consciousness, a vision
emerged,
Buoyant with this ecstasy, summoned with this fervor
and fury,
And absconded again, away to the depths and deep of
dreams,
Who vision calls and is called through by the poet,
Like a vessel or a moonbeam,
Shot and reflected from beneath the well,
Reaches up and down like a black and white hand,
Unified in man is the spirit of the deeps
And the lilting light,
Which sungs from above like lightning,
The tips of his hand fill man,
And what emerges is like song.

Brief mistress, beauty,
But eternal wife is Wise, and what fades is never
gathered again,
But unconsolidated, flitting in shades,
Tossed, like a stone, against gravity,
Upon the reflection of the lake -
For sight, it does the impossible;
For sight it is brief like rain and wine,
Brief like the light of day,
Unpromised is the grandeur of forgetfulness,
For it is the Thirst of Life that desires
The grape upon the vine, in its ripening,
For it is the Life Within that life eternally desires;
In parallax vision, wages great wars for that which it
reaches out,
Too, in a dream, of that light which it sees but cannot
take,
Tastes, and yet sours in its mouth,
Shines from within, and yet is reflected off the mirror
and the stone,
The sunlight and the blinding day.
Reaching out forever to touch that which flits away,
Like a butterfly in a funereal plane.
All earth is burial, or else hiding, the incubation of the
light,
Stolen away and transformed into iron ore;
The burning core of the axis which is the heart;
Buried and stowed away is the death and dead,
For transformation to take hold,
Seedling, sapling, with eyes thru which the cracks of
light
Take hold and produce Visions,
Sought in the sap and sown through dreams,
Filtered through the nets of the mind -
Touch and taste, sight and sound,

Raising the heat of the blood; tempering the pressure,
Distillating and compressing the flesh;
The beaker of transformation seethes and boils,
Spills over in rage and desire,
Runs red and blue and cold,
The blood spilled and passed forevermore,
From generations - like time
Are flesh and plants,
Giving and taking the spilled blood,
The green and red light of the sun, the whipping licks
of flames
Which form and temper them from within,
That for which they reach,
The blinding light and flesh of life,
So quickly sought and sown, and in their fury to claim
it
Unrecognition
For the times that form and shape them,
For the vessel which bears and breeds them;
Chiseled with like the hammer of the stars, and the
heroism
Of this plane - each life, briefly lived and Art
Which is the sculptor from within, these witnessing
eyes
And the aural ladder which they climb, of light and
recognition,
Remembrance, thy name Eternal, unbowed and
unbled,
Untaken and untaught, without name, uncapturable,
And that very essence, incorruptible and uncorrupted,
Thence each life was drawn like a sword, like a spectre,
Placed life against life,
Like meat between dogs, like a thresher to corn,
And laughed, jokingly,

At the fervor and the fever alike, at the tossing and
turning,
Like the tossing of a coin, or the marching of the dead
on this earth,
Already skeletal, already lamenting their
dissatisfaction,
Chased from death to death, and grave to grave.
Each moment taken, lost to displeasure,
Briefly held and trembling at the bit of incertitude,
Could not be grateful nor alive;
For there was still forever to be had
In a tulip or a brushfire, in a pig or a snowstorm,
In a volcanic eruption.
Chasing terror and fame, chasing possession and self
elevation,
Chasing ecstasy and emanation,
Upon the scales of music lies their drama, and upon it
the drum beats -
Passion and madness, too,
Writ large in the play, symphonic and orchestral,
Yet all writ with the smile of the player, design
Coming to know itself, design -
And the folds of time like a quilt upon Eternity,
Ecstatic among the firelight, beaming and warm,
Forever the singing and never the song.

Wandring days; the compassion which steals
From the stillness, of the presence of being
Which sleeps like a dragon beneath the egg of the
world,
Cradling the earth in its great, fiery talons,
While within the yolken ore churns,
The fire with which these limbs are made,
And like the silken sheets of God’s hand
Brush the arms and eyes with slumber
With the wind of great art, the breeze through which
the spirit whispers;
The eaves of the trees, calling to their primordial
hunger,
Their roots sapped and yearning
For the waters of the soul
Which lap around underground caves,
Jeweled, like the lotus which sits
With eyes closed;
The presence of the inner eye
Beating drum, the world turning,
Fore day to night and night to day,
To be bought and sold and slept in graves.
From worldly kingship to burial grounds,
Charging forward neath the awning of crumbling
empires,
The city fruit sellers, wheeling their peddling carts,
The card players, and the constancy of the deck
Of like days in the year, peddling the axis as it flashes
the scope of the burning star,
Near and far the sun, pressing her face to the window
of the soul;
Gyrating to the cold black evenings,
Footfalls in the warm lamplight upon the wooden stair,
And the fingertips of the great black grand piano,
O, abyss which peers through song,

With hungry pantheric eyes, O Aeon,
Anthemic, and beating quietly, like the pulse of a heart,
Or the lapping rivers of a lake.
Streams the soul, dynastic spinning of the planets; their
song and sound and shape -
Crafting the garland of fruits worn by the earth
mother,
As she shakes the tree limb branches of her hair
And births flowers from the soil -
Embarassment of riches, the gladness of the spoil,
Returned from spool and hand to soil,
Stardust to ashes again, the burning
Felt rippling in the eyes, and heart and soul,
Unquantifiable, unconstant, unquenchable,
The hunger with which the river streams,
The blood to feed the blood,
The blood to feel the blood,
O sirens of desire, feel me now,
Caress my hands and feet and eyes,
Lilting body in the stillness,
The paradox of bloodbeats
Glad traveller, as each hand marks and caresses the
tombstone,
Body of the mother earth, bodice of her iron,
Riven with stone to stone, thrown from the black, and
making contact
Stone which shines with opaque blackness, stone
worshipped,
Stone which built these quiet walls, pretend, the
separation
Pretend, the gates of fire through which war traverses,
Swinging her broad hips, and black dress,
Water of the soul spilled,
Given back to earthen soul and spirit of time

Lived in truth, in silence, with words like perfect silence
Never came forth nor left from that place of eternal
perfection
With limbs like trees, a heart like a beetroot,
Veins like roots and lightning,
Assemblage of the world soul, heated, granular,
Within the chamber of the body;
Burning, the engine of the center of the planetary,
wandering body,
Which travels the cosmos, stars heated and sweats,
Fugues and lifts, heaves,
Metaphysical dilemmae, the idea which in shape and
form is representation,
The degree of heating and compression which is body,
The beaker which is like glass bent and translucent,
By light, seeing thru itself,
By delusion, dancing in dream and the phosphorous
night of the beaker,
Purgation, the burning away of all that which was
upon waking
Like a dream or a memory, pounding like a repetition,
Circulating like a bloodstream,
Closing and opening like a membrane, rushing like a
river,
Within the mind, sign, made by the dancing nerve
endings,
Each star a sigil, each star an eye;
Rooted beneath the impossible world, which stood
upright and spinning,
Slightly tilted eye, cockeyed, and each time out of joint
Begetting the time further,
Each time called and beckoned on, the coming of the
next word
Like the birth of the body of the babe, hands curled
around
The nape of the neck of the proud God

Spiraling into the deep space, free air, free of
condensation,
Without mirror but pure blackness,
And the light which shines from within, the mouth
upon the blood
Siphoned from the saplings of the earth,
Picked from the loose dirt; the vines shining and
winding toward the burning star,
Burning black from within, smelting the ore which
soaked and nipped at the blood,
Pecked at it like a carrion bird,
Upon resting place, where the flesh is left, and the
spirit flies
Twirls around the clearing hill with golden eyes,
Remembering the first morning and the perishing last
of night
Like a dwindling feast by firelight

Without possession, like water through the hands
Goes time, the moving image of the deep,
In dark, and still and silence,
The inner eye is the one who sees, and yet does not
leave -
In the first splitting of the particle,
From the creation of dark to light, the paradox of
being
Fleeing from eternal night,
Comes and goes the vision, in sleep and in waking day,
The inner sun of blackness, and the outer sun of clay,
Which moulds and sculpts mortal things,
Which go and come to pass, splitting like morality,
Man and woman, first and last,
The gyration of the burning stars,
Coming to collision,
In dreams the sexuality,
The oneness, wrote incision, made the face of man
And words, the self within the eye,
A diamond mine of vision, of being in disguise,
A thousand shapes, a thousand eyes, a thousand ways
Like colors upon the canvas
Like dye upon the die
Which spin and tumble upon the ground
Reflecting different lives

A fyre hid within the vehicle, a fyre hid within the fyre;
Bodies sheltering bodies,
In orders of magnitude, dancing in cosmic roses,
Budding and blooming sound,
In resonance, remembering, their first imitation,
Of geometric perfection
A fyre hid within the vehicle, aerating, the smoke and
steam
From the enginic burning, speech and sound,
Word and thrust,
Upon which the world dances, stamps with hooves,
Around the burning of the stars -
Clarity, their sulfur and gas, their ore and metal,
Their stone and wood, nutriments,
Within, digestive properties, consuming and
consumptive
The clarification of the steam, self remembrance,
Steam burning bright, white as midnight moon,
Reflects the sun,
First memory in the dowry pool of feeling,
Cast upon the fount, and retrieved the stone,
Parcival and Andromeda,
Constellation and star,
Dancing around the dreaming lodge; the midnight bar,
Of feeling, swooning ecstasy, salmon and red wine,
Again, remembering, the dawn of all time,
And the first blooming of the flower;
The pollenation of the eye
Body seethes, remembering feeling,
Amid like a glass beaker, world’s utero,
Contracting light and image, mirror and sound,
Reflecting and flickering off the glass, vibratio,

The instrument entwines, with fingers and hands like
strings
And mouths like woodwinds,
Met the air and sung the wind,
Strings the entwined hand and rooted ground,
Mystery, upon contact, called together
Propelled by force of steam and reactio, chemical
compound
Which sparks the firelight
Wood upon the flame or gasoline, Smelting ore,
And like reason descends upon the insane
Enlightened by the memory of the first flame, which
burns within
Seethes and heaves in darks and dins,
Amidst chaos’ whispy fingers, the darkness
Encroached
Like a panther
Flame eternal, that which burns within, even pregnant
darkness,
Beneath the shade of eye and mind, lies the mind’s eye,
Sheathed of memory, looks within upon the furnace,
Purgatio, each evening feeling
Burned over the water; produced the steam of night
Swirled the draught of dreams, drunk and dizzy
Saw the night of stars and drew meaning
In their turning, bodies of contact like sexual wars,
Desire,
The notion of attraction, magnetism,
The fury of the bodies
Coming together and tearing apart,
O lofty realms of paradise, like wind desires wind,
Or a sun desires to burn,
It does so alone, awakened to the first fury,
Primordial even before animals and men, before plants
like they who reach t’ward the sun,

Who reach t’ward the burning
That is themselves from within,
Could not be given and taken from the pure flame,
But that which burns away to reveal that which is itself.
So, madness, forgetting,
The chasing of the plenary about the totem pole of the
galaxies
Churning and journeying, the fyres in magnetism,
Luminary, buoyant density
Coming together and apart in their swinging dance,
Like pendulum of time is forgetting,
So forgetting, time itself.
Remembrance, then, eternal perfection,
Of the will unified, the flame within,
Which burns, beyond within and without,
Flame which desires flame itself,
That which it is, and has, the very life
Which courses thru the veins of the potter and the
plant,
The mystical dance of uprooting and return,
For the world depends on forgetting,
To spin, those who remember - eternally still yet move
In divine time, become the wave and the current,
The lapping and the beach,
The time out of time, and the moment of the breach
Between forms, standing still at the gates of deathless
time
O’er yonder, the black gates, where the sun rises to
meet the day
And sets to meet the night;
Horizon of perception, burning bright
Where the waxen sun sets, to meet the red sun from
within,
The smelting of the soul as it meets the skin,

The burning of the flesh to touch the eternal fyre
again.
Submerged, like a body in water, returned to form of
formlessness,
The entirety,
Emerged, like an independent being, a birth, a
separation,
Young mind, forgotten,
To meet that which birthed, the blood which rushes to
meet the surface of the face and skin,
Like the roots and soil,
Face like the flowers and plenary dance,
Veins like the lightning, the tolling of the bell
Which whips and cracks, the great fyre
Which moves the gears of time, in their dancing,
Thru peaks and valleys, thru uteros and birthings,
Thru grounds and totems, insurrections upon the soil
and soul,
The peerings within, and the shadows of time,
Etched in the fyrelight upon the wall,
Canvas of life,
Canvas of being,
Art of pure eternity

The mad grasping, desperation of loss,
Waxen figures tumbling into the sand, archer,
Who shot down the moon, collapsed the planets like
small moons
Marbles, pebbles, and stones into the palm of one’s
hand
The beating heart, microscopic
Interspersed with a thousand dark veins
Reaching toward the black vacuum of the infinite,
beckoning
Beyond knowledge, beyond reason
Tumbles the dice of men, and all time, into the faith of
eternity,
Loosened, clenched fist, loosened faith in reason,
Loosened name and place,
Eternal crucifixion, upon this point, mad ecstasy,
exchanged
For name and time, the levitation of moment’s
presence,
Lilting song, of a thousand moons, chanting
harmonious,
Aligned, bird’s call in winter’s night,
Migratory, and yet indelibly upon this point, as self eats
self,
And comes upon oneself, like a mirage, a mystery, a
stranger in the dark
And a found symphony
Dying galaxy, burps and gasps, chirps the song,
Of dying stars, fyres burnt the machine black and
gasping,
O last hours, ‘fore the bandit of life absconds,
Upon this next train, ‘yond the axis of space and time,
‘Yond the axis of spirit and matter, experimentation,
thru vessel,

Thru flesh, which sculpts and moulds the material
plane,
Unconscious emerges the garden, like wild vine, to take
and reclaim stone,
To crack the gates of law, to reclaim the last rules
Upon the freedom of creativity, unleashed like a breath
of smoke,
Pure spiritude, visible in the cold black night,
Moonlike streetlights, the fainting vision of snowfall,
footfalls,
And the beckoning hand of darkness,
Abscond with these nervous visions, syncope of the
flesh
The sense and feelings, this vessel of song,
Which sings with the wind of the lungs, stomps beat
rhythms with the footfalls, and plucks the strings of the
air with curling fingers,
The night is like a curtain of guitars

Hopeless infinity, whose memories are dreams,
Who lingers on like creeping roots and branched
fingertips,
You, tree of small fyres, and visions,
Which grapples with the crystal ball of its flame,
Remember me - you who I am made within,
With these hips and fingertips, and this song
Sung with these eyes, asserting myself
To be such as you envisioned within your nerve
endings,
At this juncture of the stars,
Fed by black light, your lilting infinity my own,
My star within, gesticulating, beating, circulating the
very blood
From which I am made, your own
Wherever do we travel, forever onward,
New stations and junctures of spiritude with your song,
A train station cafe, a brief song sung at the first snow
By a strange woman, behind the veil of her hair,
The madness of death giving and taking all these lives
alike,
Where am I not the same in your eyes?
A thousand shapes and sizes of these instruments,
Driven on by the soul, fractal,
The cold dirt which shoveled onto these seeds,
Goddess, buried with a flower and a stone -
We do not need these names,
But the pounding fyre within, the relentless drive,
The rhythmic engine, which remembers you,
Universal One,
My being indivisible, and yet here I sit, like this calm
hymnal,
In these meditations of silence,
Unspeaking, the poem weaves like roots and veins and
vines

Thru your eternal truths like a spool of yarn,
Divine, all of whom we are is mistress of fates.
Divine, this whole world levitates, Logos,
Your strange mystery -
Your impenetrable fervor,
Striking like a serpent of love

Treasonous am I, searcher for love,
Treason in jest, masked in fun and joy, even in the
apparition of sadness,
Is not the game of the spirit like a hunt?
Stalking one’s own prey;
Chasing down the setting sun and the rising moon
Like a hound, like a dog,
Like a scrying hand, at the gates of the mystery,
Peering into the fountain pool for a vision,
For a dry land, for a reason
For a truth
Godless, laughable, chugs the dirge of history and time
AH, laughing impossible godlessness,
Like moonlessness or lifelessness,
Like all separations, given a symbol and revoked,
Given a card and returned, given a number and once
proved,
Quckly forgotten.
In the night, chanting the name, around the fire of the
stars,
Covered by the smoke of reason, as if traveling under a
black horse,
Worldly life like a black rider, behind the mask of the
apparition
Death, like a screen, like a veil
Given and taken upon this earth, a meaningless
exchange, a brief pleasure
Like the vision of a diamond, a haunting, hinting
illusion,
Before the gates of paradise, spiritude,
Tasting the electric wine upon the tongue,
A finger upon the chariot of death, which absconds to
the black land
Veiled behind the marble gates of time -
To peer into the essence of transformation is to die

And behold what is beyond time
Spirit, endless, nameless,
Words I use to evoke you, interchangeable,
You’re a dog, a train, a diamond, a terror, a face,
A laugh, smelter,
At the furnace of my soul, knocking about,
Throwing this metalwork of the art, casually, out of the
door of my face and heart and mind,
Bleeding black blood from my hands, this dark web
before matter, which feeds me,
Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood,
Your first and last name are my own, which lilts in a
thousand characters,
To take a few and dissemble them, mimickry, art of the
art
Like a sculpture or statue of the infinite, divine,
Uncaptured, a netless net for a fishless fish,
Fore the whole ocean of being,
Become my time, as it beats and bleats,
Upon the stone dungeon sacrifice, freed the lightest
From the blackest dungeon stone,
All chains, unstrong in the face of spirit, which sings,
Impossible language, impossible songs,
In this translation, remembered

The abyss is common to us
Jokers of a same card, cat eyed, dog eyed,
We draw, etchings of the body, before the colors of
oblivion
Come shining, all shades of blackness, abscond
Take our bodies before the eclipse; high noon of the
stars
Universal body, drawn lurching and filching before the
mud,
Take my diamonds, body, inner vision
Thru which I saw, rising up thru primordial churning
Fish-eyed flesh, grabbing at the handle which swung
the dawn
Moon ecliptic, stole from itself, sealed itself in the
container of the flesh
And brooded, for centuries, aeons of distribution
Of flesh, cells, muddy blood,
Which ran blue and brown and red, like the dawn,
Like the rivers of blood which stroked and caressed the
skin of the earth,
Distilled, marked down with gradients and shades,
Exfoliated to reveal the first, great bones,
O, body of the earth,
Enchant me, first mother, all else forgot
But in the swaying of the receded mind’s eye,
In solitude, there is nothing but the stillness,
Cat’s perched birding of the evening, it was as if in the
stillness
All was dead, but vibrated alive, enchanted by rays of
the dying star,
Even now, death beckons like winter’s scythe,
Glad, cool death

There is one essential rhythm, the breathing of the
stars,
Stamped and shaded, fire of the birth which split the
cells,
Transformation is the place, the home, transfiguration,
The moment of changing forms,
Spirit leaves the body’s breath,
In truth, we know what is the word,
Thing which has left the world and hovers above it,
aetheric,
Cannot be obtained, bottled, but swirled and swilled in
the mouth,
Purgated, found a common home among the stars, like
coal’s burning,
What is left is the remains of empire,
In meditation, smoking on the pipe of the stars, behind
a curtain,
A whisper that lingers like a lyre, soothed tone, smooth
and revibrating,
You remember, vessel of flesh, player
Who strummed the hands and arms, whose eye
returned
And turned in upon itself to heed the inner chambers
The inner fire which steadied the hand
And revealed the essence of the starlight

Atop the spires, life, a spiritual transformation of the
soul,
Beaker, container, evoke the spirit,
Steaming amidst the hold of the body, contained,
Swirling, twirling,
Tell me of the delight within, the hot iron ore that
burns and foments,
And shears the planetary form,
Shears the body, in the dance of the stars,
Spinning, pointed tops of the fates,
Snowy caps of the archetypes, faces of the clouds,
Faces of the fire, faces of the multitudes,
Faces which dance in the river of being,
O, brief moment, evoking the spirit of creation, black
possibility,
Running the color of the stars, Supernovae, in various
states of fermentation,
States of difference, states of rising and falling among
the stars,
Brief memory which changes our faces,
Brief moment which turns the twines of Fate,
Dance of moments, determining paths, each decision
an incision into life,
Into the beaker which steams, the blood, the knife, the
color of change
And time, which flows the blood,
A dagger dance in the stars, in the garden of paradise,
first perfection,
Upon which this ground of life, this pedestal of man
where the art is made,
Upon the collision of the stars and their birthing, which
produces great paintings, with the eye of the stars
signified,
The blood electric, and surging from the skies,
The blood warm, volcanic, and seeping from the
earthen dirt,

Sun within, warming the body,
Sun without, warming the body
Condensed matter, and the spirit which runs thru the
formation of life like an underground stream,
Grottoes which speak thru geyser, mouth of earth
Speaks, is the art,
Speaks is the time, thru which the face of the night
changes,
Speakes, thru which the transformation is fomented,
Evocative, evoked,
In each dancing glance, in each moment of time,
Sophistication, carried thru by life, and the passage of
days,
Aging, fermenting, the body and blood like a wine,
Their heady brew is a vision of the psyche, a vision of
the soul,
Through experience, the diamond is made,
Deep in the channels of the earth,
Hid, is the diamond mind, organic, is the diamond
minde,
Which speaks in eternal perfection, and yet evokes the
truly novel art,
The inflection of the fyrey light, the inflection which
produces the eternal art of being,
Beckoned underneath, by experience, gesticulated in
dreams, in the brew of the body and mind,
Produced the novel glance of remembrance and
presence,
Between here and eternity and the unspeakable past,
Multitude, and yet beyond the mind,
In coalition of the spirit and the flesh, siphoned and
steamed by the mind,
Streamed into being in the momentous inspiration,
Which flies the body forth into new time, new rhythms
Rememory, face, fate, like the limbs, which beat the
new blod,

Steam the new light, entry, of the spirited form,
Introducing the new light being, the in utero,
The child of the eternal moment, streaming,
Eye like the blind, eye like the curtained veil,
Pulled away and behind to reveal the nativity of the
soul,
Organic, true, eternal, and whole, drives the painting
spirit,
Eruption, erupting, dancing, and twirling in the stars of
the night
And in the breasts of the being, ready to speak the
transformed word,
Changed body, novelty experienced in context,
Upon the experience which is the surmounting of the
mountain,
Facing the fate, and wearing the mask changed by
time, the mask which becomes wise, wisened, in the
barrel of the body,
Sophisticated by encounters, of the deep,
Come near to the fount of life, and light erupted,
Sun to meet sun,
Inner being to meet the representation,
Life to meet the symbol,
And their discursion,
Creation, chiseled monument, O Time, the art of
being,
To aged sophistication, to aged wine of the blood and
body,
To the heady vision of the gods,
To the heady vision of the soil, fomented, fertile
grounds for creation,
Majestic, soaring, the spirit of the soul,
Practiced in the flying art,
Practicing the flying art, and in the act, perfectio of the
act,

The divine dance which is the allusion of the very
moment and movement of creation itself,
Total participation, and the fomenting of the first being
within the soul,
The eternal perfection of the cosmos and the stars
revealed thru the act,
The sophisticated act of creation,
In unison and in utero, with the very movements of the
universe,
In sympatico, in symphony, the universal dance,
At one and at once with time,
The body dances and sings and foments the blod,
Which dances at once new and ancient shapes,
First hieroglyphs and first paintings,
First blood and first memory, first birthing and first
destiny,
Spun and entwined like starry rivers, of trees which
spiral
In action, in choices and in choosing, the movement
which sophisticates the soul,
In each alchemy of the act, of the knowing going
deeper into the soul,
Into the roots of the eternity of being

Wreck’t, Upon the Ship of Life
Look Toward the Stars, Or Deep Into the Mind -
For, Precisely, Two and One are the Same.
Navigating, like Odysseus and his crew,
Perilous waters, trenches of the soul -
T’ward the stars, and the circling dance of plenitudes.
Like signposts, spin the wandering bodies
In the immortal air above,
Black as space and night -
The planets are like memories, wafting in the immortal
air,
Of silence and still, scents and furtive glances,
Like a bookstore, a junkyard, a grove of trees.
Remembrances, there are, like petroglyphs etched in
stone,
Of the turnings before, and the meanings of the
turnings -
Like a fire in the streets, brambles before a brook, and
the hard stones against the skin of feet,
Or a broad sun’s face - the light of the beloved;
A candle’s wax thickening; the shadows upon the wall -
Heed life’s beck and call -
For each dawning and nightingale
Is an opening into an unseen world;
Yet the earth travels like a vessel,
Speeds like a body through space,
And a thousand arms and a thousand eyes
Encounter the massive bodies in their hand in hand
dance
Upon the cresting hilltop of being
And the shadowy, folding valleys of the soul
With twinkling stars, like a blanket
Rests the enchantment -
Like a veil of time.
Immortal, being wanders among the black,

At once unified and separated,
In a paradox, brief forgetting,
Is like the engine of desire, a fyre unperishable,
Explosive, that which moves the impossible,
The grace of the engine which pulls and attracts, like
waves,
Gleams and whispers back, from behind the veil of
darkness, the face of the abyss;
The veins and rivers which call in their rushing, the
waters of force,
Which bleat and bleat - for two souls to meet,
Or for a galaxy to leave rest,
And wander into the vacuum of new paradigm.
For where we are leaving, we are not going,
But merely seeing with the eyes of earth,
Eyes of dirt and flesh, this whole vessel a body, animate
with wilds,
And steaming with storms; boiling volcanic; soothed
cool fits of rage with glacial temperaments.
O’ spectrum of feeling,
O’, gladness for cool nights of fall, and the heat which
rises to meet the peaks of the sun,
As if light is reaching hands thru the immortal
darkness.
Space, Psyche,
Woven by the hands of fate thru night -
How long did it take for this memory to reach you?
For this heroic scent to waft in the air,
Thru caves, thru distant sleepless nights,
Thru memories which became dreams,
Additive, fermented and corrupted,
And renewed thru imagination?
O’ art, which is the guiding light and hand,
Vision of the night reflected in the dowry pool of the
body,
Like a silent garden grove;

The courtyard, where the resting scrying fount of the
mind rests -
Thru nature to the divine,
A link, a thread, born and aged thru time
Like wine to blood, and blood to wine.
Splendor, the goddess of song,
Thru which men tremble in their search, Trawling the
black fields of time for Reason and Meaning -
The night is gold, and the planets hold within them
Great metals of mystery -
Man is chiseled, hand and arm, to these ends of time;
Whittled like wood; singing, and the mystery is to itself
revealed -
In broad furnace, disquietude of war, rhythmic cricket,
In time is the instrument of sound, which reverberates
and trembles
With the first word -
Shining, is it apt to describe the planets as mad?
Or with a plant as furrowed brow?
That the morning is soft, or a violent wave,
Which threatens the violet city?
Seen thru eyes, the gradient of light,
Shimmers like a golden thread - to cut the night,
There rest planets and stars,
Upon impossible gravity.
Does not the whole mystery quake with wondrous
unknown?
Doors and shutters, thrown open, the whole body an
aura of the day;
Youth itself is an orgasm of life, and the story itself
moves in spirals which widen and shaken, and tremble
like gyres.
For man alive is a funeral pyre,
And yet, death is not to be feared, but rather is a
means to life.

To die into life a thousand times, and to be flung into
the waters
And born again -
Nameless, faceless, and yet the soul peers out from the
windows of the eyes;
Moves these lips, and speaks these names without base
or meaning.
The soul flows fluid in song,
And in truth, touches the angelic spirit’s wings -
For rays of light know rays of light the same,
And all that’s fallen is just a name.
For dawn to rise in dirt; a horizon in a stone’s vein, a
sun which heats the earth from within,
And the moment of unity, where each cliffsface is a
symbol, a direction for God, a meaning for union, a
mapmaking.
For each ascends to sacred heights, and falls to
darkness where the seed of the soul is found;
Quenched by the inner sun.
Even in winter’s death, the star is found within,
But one must approach death, and pet the lion’s mane.
The poem does not ask: it remembers infinity
Like an ancient mother.
It traces the walls of the cavern of the soul, and the
rivers of the veins
Which recall the boat upon the oceans of the earth;
The nerves of the cosmos, touched by a cooling hand
Upon the back of a cat, or a berry, tenderly,
Compassion, found in the lightning that connects all
things;
The blood of life which soothes and heals all wounds -
The earth trembles with scars,
Oozes with blood and dirt, bleeds, herself,
And the cool night before death is like a magician,
medicine, and a healer -

To drop the blood and remember -

Calm, the waves of the starry skies
Beads that assuage and disperse, their conversations,
fluid
Like an ocean, like a starry net, which swims thru the
body, lo,
The diamond dances of the flesh; their heated waters,
and cooled,
By dreams, where the mind’s eye leads, in beckoning
whispers,
To the gates of new meaning -
Coalition of language, caught the daylight, refractory,
Where dreams become memories, and memories
become dreams,
Hazy, is the horizon and the nightfall, the cresting of
the waves
To meet the hilltop of the stars,
Each sunrise and sunset of the bright star, leading
forth,
Imagination - thru the blue black abyss,
A magnetism calling, o’er yonder,
A calling which attracts, and like pearls and beads,
Adorn the necklace of God, these lives tumble like dice
thru the aether, Infinity
Is the name for these clothes; sheer shorn is the hair
which whets the forest floor,
These leaves of eternal beings, calling, and leaving
their cloaks,
This earth, like a bedside for spiritude,
Satins and silks,
Rememory -
Is like the tyger’s eye - the rise and fall of the attractor
in the eye, pupil’s black -
Love expands the scope of being; in waking day, no
two are alike

And yet all are the same, beating with a refractory
rhythm,
Like each diamond eye reflects the light, a thousand
diamond eyes, yet a million
Composts the soul, the grounds of being, thru
blackness, and light is like a network of being,
The prism of the body, and the release - into the pure
flow and rhythm of being -
Feeling like a tyger, feels like immediacy, and untamed,
untethered,
Leaping from the body;
Pirouetting amongst the stars,
A constellation of feeling; the bright points,
Like the eyes, lips, genitalia,
All freedom, flows like the waves, boundless;
Two points touching; kissing; the world is a lover
Between boundless black death and the light which
steams inside the chest;
Heaves these words between two great suns; like the
magic of the arcade entrances the child
So too do the great lights cast a spell, between spirit
and soul, between moon and earth,
Between sunrise and sunset; between the collisions and
births,
Stars have the spirit of soul like planets; they dance like
lovers’ writhing bodies;
Birth great new engines which hum and split and
explode like starry canvases -
The whole universe is beckoning -
Will you listen, with your ears like trumpets, and
participate in the great art?
This life a canvas; the nature of being with colours
unknown, sights unseen,
And the body is aflame with a violet, purple flame, the
flame of Creation,

The flame that burns pure and is eternally renewed.
For have you played the instrument of fyre? Have you
touched the fyrelight within?
Have you danced, in the log cabin of your soul, your
legs like mountains,
Snow kissed hips and eyes, to touch the stars with the
hilt of your face,
Your lips the moon;
Your mind the dancing, fleshing, threshing network of
the galaxies?
For the light to flash is communication; it dances,
showing skin and blood;
Twirls around the beaker of this manifold galactic
plane;
Dances to the tip of each dimension; weaves gracefully
under, around, above;
In worldless ways, like a needle and thread; the eye of
consciousness
Passes thru the wave into the dancing world of eyes -
The pupil is called around, beneath, within;
To leap into the starry skies, and like lightning, is
awakened to the inferno
Beneath the eye, the heat of consciousness, the heady
nature
Which makes crucifixions out of the trees; splits the
light,
And heats the green embryo of their being, siphoning
the fluid of life,
And like a plum or a peach touches the hand, it
touches the hand of God -
From God, nectarine, from God, the sweet juice of life
From body to body, nourishment.
Attain the night, and grow deeper, with roots into the
mystery,

God knows how the planets dance, and hold
themselves up with invisible feet,
Their roots into eternal blackness; their force beckoned
by force yet unexplored
And miraculously, known deep within.
Levitation like plums and grapes, at the table of the
unknown feast,
With stars above, and stars beneath;
Around the furnace, this great nation of industry,
Which knows no name and no face; yet attains them all
in the great night,
Which vibrates, like a eye in the mirror of the eye,
An encounter of the universe with itself,
Scrying, like a mountaineer, the first moment of time,
As it breaks, like an egg or a yolk into the hot pan of
the body,
Regularity, mortality, infinity - present at each moment
of birth -
Reaching, black hand, reaching, white hand,
Intercoursing into the flesh and fluid of the soul;
The hot sword of being, which moves and dances,
The backbone of the dancing snake of the universe -
The rhythm of the wave, sine as it descends, sine as it
rises;
Black snake, white snake
As it plunges its hands into the immortal sun,
And offers up the feast of death to the white hot beaker
of light,
Pouring, laval, into the basin of the soul -
To steam the eye of the flesh, of night eternal
Mingled with eternal day -
Intercoursing paradox
Which explodes, jettisons life, expands the mind
And produces the work of art of the soul

What is my genius, but a quiet knife erupting among
the stars,
The silence of prison bars, and the altruism - which
runs like shit through the streets.
The days and nights pass tirelessly, but I, myself am
tired -
Having climbed the spires of the great invisible
mountain of the spirit,
And spoken in an unknown language,
Come down, again, to the village of sheep, goatherds,
and milk,
And proclaimed the truth of dust to the dead and
dying.
How now shall I proceed, owing nothing to no one,
And owning but this sack of fruits, this cornucopia of
breathing first matter,
This breath that is taken like the exhalation of
supernovae,
And the madness of an expanding mind, regularly
communing with this asteroid belt?
Two languages and two socks, spirit and matter,
And the dial of time running through this body like a
river.
Flesh, what is the matter?
Why do you rebel and squirm, like a lion or a fox in a
suit?
To outwit the bridesmaids of this earth
And abscond to the immortal plane,
Like Odysseus, Tiresias, Jason, and this mad gang,
To play among the streets of the stars -
This life like a stickball match, played by street urchins
and coal miners.
Clean water? Juice? The fruit of life?

Which sprays its fluid - like a dog’s piss, like a giant
eye,
Bulging in fear, rumbles time, and rains down the relics
of dying stars,
Rogue galaxies, and the runaway train of the universe.
What use are platforms? What use are these scuffed
and soon to be worn through shoes?
Which I take, and place by the mantlepiece, the
fireplace,
And look for new blues for these paintings,
Which have replaced my mind, my eyes, and this night
sky.
Faith from the ground is like a bridge, between steel
beams,
And the vanishing air.
Where is the glory? In each passing phase, of street
signs, of empires,
Of lovers -
Failing myself, this liver still beats, and each day is
processed by the mind like a meal or a feast.
For the air cannot speak to itself, but through this
instrument like a mouth.
Everyday is like a beating heart, a thumping chest, a
ceiling,
A moniker, defined, set in certitude and stone,
And tithed in a camp with high walls.
How regular now has greed and dismissal become?
As regular as bread and water, on the good days. Why
does life squirm to survive
Amidst the croaking hens and the pigsty?
The beauty over Monet’s water is foggy and
unreachable with these hands
Which make loud noises over the canvas of the street
And rip apart the sinews of the earth to reveal the
black blood.

How many tired and dying eyes have passed
Thoughtless, sightless, and out of tune?
The stars sign and sing the ancient hymnal, and the
maidens sigh,
And language is like a scrying toy,
Above the mirror of the stars, and below the black lake
of the psyche.
Drawing water, like a servant or a slave to God, am I,
back and forth with pitches and heaves,
Clearing the deck of the masthead ship.
Life, this shitwater, pailing and heaving to the stars,
lifted with the bailing and pulling,
This poison drawn from the mouth in song.
Sung and discarded, this waste and trash,
This dying eye, begotten, sodden, delirious,
And left in the dirty mud.
For freedom, men die, and the night flips like a coin.
All is trespassing after a certain hour, windows creak,
The moon dislikes disquiet, and the crickets chirp - do
not interrupt their song,
Blind and listening is madness, and it speaks in hues
which hold no bounds.
Between genius and madness is unity, the mind
destabilized,
The witness encroached on each forest worm and
trampled mushroom,
Each barreling coal train and each concrete wall -
Brick over brick, stone speaks in heavy silence,
Stoic, like dead imagination. They do not speak or
sing, the lost ones,
Beyond death, and waiting for the boat that will take
them between here and there;
The waiting itself is nowhere, not even smoke or fog,
Not even sigil or sign, not moon nor sun,
But like a ghost without a wake.

Gambler, with guns, gambler, with war’s fury,
Gambler, with nowhere to go but this little room,
And all of life’s islands have become useless toys.
Now will you pound the bars and let out a silent
scream for desire, the forgotten one,
The one that leaves you perennially dissatisfied?
You take and take from the river’s womb, and leave
nothing but a bone’s bruise,
For water forgets hymnals,
For water forgets all things - and its sole purpose is to
flow,
And this world is dammed by indolence - dammed by
the darkened mind,
Dammed by the slow passage of time, that which it
takes for the light of sight to reach the mind
And illuminate the dark casket of the body -
For each psyche is born naturally with a grave,
And hid within the grave, a sacral fire.
For desire burns,
Treacherous and warm -
Destiny, Fate, what have you? Where do you wait with
open arms?
Upon the docks, like sailors in disguise, or in the
asylums, like me,
Mad and lost,
Spinning your spider’s web, crotchety and old -
Do your bodies, too, not take to the sand and stars,
Like a sieve in the night?
Like a fire in the hand,
Bleeding the black blood and foretelling, this prisoner’s
path,
Marched to hell, to walk this vein of God into the
womb of death
And proclaim the violence of nothing.
What fate is this? Perilous,

Yet entirely assumed.

Limitation, the ceiling of life
The painted walls of this cave, thickly entertained,
So that death but is a forgetting.
Smooth forgetting, quick whisper, lightless
Like calm clouded sea,
And the pearls in the mouth of the poem -
Certitude about meaningless things.
I remember the cavern, the grotto of being,
Where the blue light of the water
Laps upon the lazulis,
Incertitude - forgotten, for the path forged is a vein
thru being
Like a headway between two stones.
Light is drawn like blood in the corridors,
The sheer alleyways of night,
It dreams like Morocco or Sirius, it dreams like a dog
in thunder
Pitches and moans, and swells
The ocean is a dagger to the hearts of men, makes
them indivisible
And in the night they are one, in the night they are
roaring drunk,
In the cobblestone, to the park, to the guitar hymnal,
Thrown into this world for one brief ecstasy,
Then shuttered into the morning,
Grunt work, field hand, sweat upon the back
And then the day is done,
Lapped up like milk in the cat’s bowl
Curled up constellation of a life,
Briefly remembered, briefly forgotten.
Hands reach out into the night to divine death,
Hands reach out into the night to sex death,
bewitched,

Calling the name of hell.
City streets are abandoned, bombed, bells toll,
And reason, schoolboy’s joke, was like a cheap date.
Everything is abandoned by man but these bodies
To which they fervently cling.
Toiling, in the wheat fields, toiling, in the mud and
dirt,
Toiling, today, to forget the sun,
To banish the mind
And to rave in the idolatry, sensory oblivion,
permanent ecstasy
Afforded by medicine -
Madness makes the world spin, at the bottom
bereaved,
At the bottom, madness, a widow.
What religion can no longer hold, the blood carries
Birds of thunder circle the volcano, making figures of
light
Which dance and wave like leaves in shadow upon the
ground.
Entranced, too, to dance like men upon their own
funeral pyres
Creation, the first myth
Which plays a rhythm in each heart and stem of
mankind,
The first thrust which whips the back of war
And corrals the night streets of love
Indecency, it would be, to call life anything,
Indecent and tiresome - to play the same song and ask
for a tithe
In a marketplace whose stones are stained with blood
both ancient and contemporary.
To do the dagger dance, to do the dance with death

Is to stomp blackness, pitched with soil.
The world is a song is all, a song at that,
Pitched with horns like mouths, stings like wine
Dry to the mouth, the thirst, the hunger, the stumbling
before the hot sun
To some sanctuary, wearing the mask of the sun god
for a sacrifice -
Men are deranged, and will do any horror for a short
fee,
Or because it flashed before their eyes on some film
reel -
Delusion is like a mirror of emptiness,
Revealing nothing but the abyss beneath, not even the
stars wink
In the blackness that takes the call like a vaginal canal.
Thrust into being, and swimming with the planetary
stars,
Which moon has a soul, blank eyed orbit,
Which planet has a beating heart, soft bleeding core of
fire,
Which stone is alive, and has a reason, a name, etched
in the quiet privation
Of a song no one else can hear?
A frequency pitched so deep and low
As it groans within the birth canals of the earth,
So that it remembers the first children, the ants, moths,
and fish
The heather of life is this poem, the whisping
indisinguishable thing
Which snakes like a blinking mind between day and
night
Between sleep and sight, and in the slip, foresight, sybil
Chiasmus -
Time, this cavern where death is the great fear
And the animal is the covet - chased around the fyre

To the roaring beat of an ancient drum
The fervor, the ecstasy, the fear.
The blood goes loud, furiously pumping, steaming,
stirring the flesh
Screaming, fore the calm cold of death.
Black deathbed of the hold of the galaxies, gravestone
of the universe
Where the song is winking in the night like a code,
Shapeshifter,
Discharging bodies like cloaks,
Abandoning ornamental suns like clothes.

Who should rise and fall, in cyclical lamentation,
In the tragedy of war, and the insurrection of golden
palaces
Upon the bows of the trees?
That history is a rhythm of breath in the eyes of a
dreamer,
And the men are caught in its midst - threshed by the
tooth and nail,
Split on the petrichor, sweating the stench of the gods,
Stripped of their flesh,
And nailed to the cross -
Between space and time, the girth of birth and dying,
The flesh breathes loud breaths, and hounds life,
Eyes stretching wide, and teeth grinding the toll of life,
Each passing day extracted, spirit returned to breath
And hands fallen to fallow soil.
The days of dying are weeping, and the bows of the
trees rest upon the earth
Crying watery tears, mingling with the oil drum body
of the earth.
Where life was so desperate, now sung by some
wandering balladeer,
Upon his horse and cart, cheerily eating strawberries
And jesting the great war of your hearts in a puppet
show
Before a pallid, thick aired room
Of the flu ridden dead.
It is like these eyes of God saw worms where there is
gold,
And words where there is silence, sick and twisted,
Night falls where day once stood, shrouded in mist and
dew -
It is as if the living, breathing body of the earth has
sweated out its blood,

Manifest, turned inside out like an old saint, or a wood
carving.
The audacity, the torture of regular, everyday living,
Where for boredom, or a joke, there is an impatience
for religious fervor
Or genocide.
How can a hand feel what is inside the heart of
another?
To contact the ancient particles which form the chest
And penetrate the beating heart into heartaches,
memories, dreams,
Dying matter.
Each human life is a great wish, and each animal death
With fear behind the eyes,
And running from the spectre of the body which meats
the earth
And is returned to the soil.
Such that life is fleeting and shallow, like a pool beside
an ocean,
Barely a mirror,
Barely a stone.

A fool ‘er turned away from his art
Troutish and dull,
To lap at the streams of the world
Nigh, polluted, nigh, loutish
With hands covered face and mouth at the dawn -
For his art sustains him:
Like a salmon leaps
Or an usher holds the gates.
A job - nightwatchmen, o’er transmigration of the
spirit,
For each day rises with coins upon its eyes,
And each night toils in the elemental room of the
earth,
Clanging, workmanlike,
Upon the ore of dreams; the pitchy volcanic space of
night.
This factory of world, this slum of desire
Poor and petty, moneyed, pretty,
And desperate for eyes.
This world dies without yet awaking, without a ladder
to the spirit,
Submerged in singular concerns.
Inflamed with love in the personal sense;
Furthermore, love that which is not love.
Each private bedroom tosses possibilities
Deep into the waning moon.
Today is for taking; the next for spoils
And not the acid of death, nor the pyre of time
To dissolve this half life jungle.
Sleepless, bulging eyes,
Passing these few remaining hours.
For these cool waters to quench it:
Hell dissipated in the tideless grottoes, moonless
waters,

And yet reflected the stars, dispassionate;
Mirrored the night perfectly in the black scrying bowl -
Of the infinite - oceanic, of the infinite - space -
And time was the gyre between them,
Twisting and contorting these sacred spiritual fyres into
bowls, vessels, meanings, words, worlds, and bodies -
Hieroglyphs and artefacts.
For time was in the art, and in the art the relic of
timelessness,
Like a single fly encased in amber.
Enduring, the instrument, thru millennia of purgation,
To be burned away and reinstated from the ashes,
Ground down to seeds of the sun;
Thrown from the black abyss, shaking and shuddering

Like weightlessness, these planetary bodies,
Like sickness, is our forgetting
Of the timeless nature of the soul:
Beneath the trench coat, the bank teller, the
chimpanzee, the cuckoo
And banishment of the ridiculous words which
populate the earth
And the outsized coins in the sky, to each stands:
Expansion, Speech, Action, Feeling, Love -
Great words, great bodies, all of which stand for silence
And front the same electricities.
How frequent does the sun come again;
How frequent does the blackness beckon in?
For this is our song, trenchant;
Beneath all petty claims -
The overtures of the tyrant; the rhythms of bestial life
and death - noble as it was to feel, touch, taste,
Undeluded by the veil which was agonizing; nothing
but a waste of time, a dalliance, a make-believe -

An art of arts spun by a weaver;
Yet outsmarted by poesy.
London, Rome, tithing, Jupiter, the gods, furious,
sulking, playing cards, fucking, philandering - warlords
and slavedrivers,
Blood sacrifices; churning the butter of the flesh
Into oblivion in a burning wood.
For as the body steams in endless nights, the heads and
feet and faces are reintegrated -
Like trees and logs and nightingales.
For want of nothing, and yet incensed, for want of
nothing and yet turning over the fire in the mind, these
apparitions of design
Which pit creation against creation,
Like a pair of stray dogs.
Sickness of the soul - is this:
The petty longings and the pitting against,
Worldly stage drama taken all too seriously,
But to throw tomatoes at the living and dying
At the power game.
Brief, meaningless throne; brief, meaningless candle
Spent on dalliance after dalliance, conquest after
conquest; romance,
Life - this ancient hall of sport:
Life - this Coliseum or Agon of time:
A dice rolled by bloodthirsty gods,
Gangs upon a streetcorner, enticed by that great devil,
boredom -
Transfixed by that great evil -
Whose name no one can remember.
To then go home for dinner, or part the blinds and
witness the death of the next season, parting hair like a
sea -
Living a mythical life drawn out in blows,

Time like this boxer, eternity like this jeering spectator

Can’t help but half laugh at the spectacle
As is each mask: betwixt night and day,
Between living and dying.
At the break of days, the old man who is at once a
child;
At the break of days, the embrace of a pure light
Which is at once an eternal and complete darkness.
Paradox, then, is the madness of days:
That which drives men to obscene ends -
Murder, change of heart.
What remains is the jest of God -
This falling out that has not arms, legs, nor hands -
And is yet the grounds of being - the one with a
thousand eternal heads.
Life is not a riddle,
But a staircase to a divine mystery
Where each orientation is a challenge,
A simulacrum, a war of bright shadows,
A way in which to rise.
The play of the child, death, genocide,
Toy boxes, alarm, eclipse, the eruption volcanic -
Holds a resonance in the infinite dying mind,
The generator of synapses, the transmission of air -
The reasoner, the very fabric of existence:
Whose psyche is yet in utero.
For who is to say that God remains imperfect and is yet
unfinished;
Simultaneous with this very eternal perfection?
The painting that is mind, steamed by the soul’s heat
Batter of the womb, cake of the earth;
Leavened and rising, fertilized by the game of life.
Spirit’s entrancement, is reason enough

For love and loss, for the game of this body, body of
bodies
Yet singular and numinous?
For it is that life is divided that it moves,
Between brush and canvas
Between lover and the transfusion of the lips,
Between the crucifix and the heart:
This rhythm of the body is a lake
And on each side stands spirit and matter.
Projections
Remember me
Ancient snake rising from soil,
The time of the dead
Revealing the dead and their things.
Pottery, skeletons, lovers, kings
All perished beneath the pestle of time
Disrespect, dying
Disrespect, their callous and short lives
Based around empty loves
And vanishing things.
Yet this pottery remains,
Chipped and shorn by time -
Like an art fatigued by war,
Like a statue defiled by iconomachy -
Time, defacer
Eternity, spotless
Without a hiccup or a broken nail,
Without a blemish or a bone’s marrow to remain,
Sucked dry by the great black snake
The light within me, darkness without me;
The body impenetrable, but for the black light which
bleeds for an eternity.
Salvation is the river in which I bathe, the river of life -
The river of pure feeling and flowing, movement,

Which grounds down all stones of empire, all futility of
building.
Crashed, back to feeling and aether - are the stones of
time.
Pure flowing - whose waters are populated with gems
of life - like lightningbugs.
Bleeding and feeling, for life is a crucified art,
Which speaks in the wellwaters of life - fluidity.
It bleeds in joy, feels and bleeds in joy,
And thus it is not blood spilt, but circulation
Among the great vessel, like the waters are taken from
the sea to the sky
And returned.
The dance within, is like swells of feeling - which make
the mind heady
And produce the great art. Life itself, the art;
The task, purgation and resurrection
From the ash of dying days; there, feeling, each day a
mass
And each night a brief asylum, then, the bars, like gates
Peel back and reveal the infinite, like a lover’s
entanglement
Orion, Jacob, God, and the breathing
Each task a revelation, a staircase, a step, a trial
Herculean and jesting with the soul, jarring, jostling,
jousting,
And man is lost and without righteousness,
In the dark but for the lamplit of his soul,
The private, candlelit inner room of the philosopher.
Without a compass, Odysseus, in the night, between
Scylla and Charybdis,
Between sense and nonsense,
Between madness and purpose,
Between reason and death.
O’ empires, who will remember thee!

Buried beneath dirt, like goblets tried by leagues of
nights,
Threshed and thrashed to a pulp, torn asunder from
human memory
And circulated like the waters of life within the glass of
time,
Eyes, like refractory mirrors, peering thru.
Jealous, envious of the living, to take all there is to take
And filter it thru the body like a sieve.
Taken with nothing, and leaving with less,
This asylum of gold, this madness of greed
In an electric dowsing pool,
In a chamber of electricity, where man is transformed,
Shocked, transfigured by primordial lightning,
Changed as the universe is changed, like a vanguard,
Painted with broad strokes
At once captain of his own fate, and fated to become as
such.
It is like this - that beings are all kings upon this earth,
Adventurers, sojourning and yet lost,
Traveling and yet deserted, tempted and yet good.
For the death of the world there will be no more or less
than the collapse of a house of cards,
Or a dice game in the temples gone slightly awry.
This world is filled with reckless abandon and desire -
With stallions whom the few attempt to control.
To chaos, then, like war, like the Valkyries charge
In the high lofty fugues of the night,
Far belong human eyes and ears, to the clashing
Which sounds like thunder.
So, too, does Psyche fight the primordial war in the
flesh,
Illuminating the caverns and caves of the soul,
Where gems which catch the light lie still,
Inner lights within, searching,

Like universal suns.
Weave, Fates,
Weave a destiny, a heroism for man,
Where Truth and Justice are no longer lofty claims,
But a living manifest upon earth, struck in divine
harmony and accord
With the Natural Law. For this law is the law of God,
The law of True Reason, without name or number,
without a mirror to the science and maths of man
But rather the law of life, which courses thru all things
and illuminates them in accord with their journeying.
For all beings are in want of Love, as they are in want
of God’s Presence -
Upon them and within them like a hand of light or an
embrace.
So do they seek, struggle, toil, and even war for love,
Deceived by shadows.
Love cannot be won, nor bought or sold at the market,
nor can it be an image, a statue,
But it is merely Life, and the Truth of Life.
It exists in the silence of the mind, which echoes
Eternity, and eternally.
It exists in the presence, which is true absence.
It exists in the silent moment which breathes and
speaks the rushing word of God,
The Divine Logos,
Which is simultaneously The Word, and wordless.
Life’s paradox is no riddle,
But rather the unity of the opposites.
As in each extreme - so hot it is cold,
So dark it is light.
One learns to see with eyes of darkness, illuminated in
shade and shadow

With the light of the firefly, free, absconding in the
night, landing on dark trees
Like comingling stars with the plenary lights, the pillars
of creation,
The divine hues of clouds, supernovae, and galaxies.
For this - the mysticism of the stars, the cosmos -
That spirit is a breath, that breathes the art
And has long seeded the earth with soul;
The soul rises, hewn by time like a flower, bourne thru
the womb like a passage,
And sings with a wound that is the eternal
remembrance
Of Being and Becoming.
It sings for silence and stillness, sings for peace amidst
the changing -
Between butterfly and cocoon, between war and
womb,
Between this land and another,
Betwixt and between forms, and even now changing -
Like a chemical equation.
For it cannot be held nor bottled, nor made residue - of
the spirit,
Uncaptured but in a glimpse of the great art,
Which smelt the smear of the soul,
Felt the dew of the breath, the turning of the tear,
The warmth of the kiss of life:
Spun, like a yarn, a story
Between galaxy and mind,
Between spirit and flesh.
So, wander
Where all is freedom,
And kept, in the warm soil of the body,
The warm air of the night
Before the tree that reaches up to the hold of the Milky
Way,

The womb of this galaxy; the passage between this
galaxy and the next.
So do hands touch, like bodies, the world moves
Toward darkness from darkness
With eyes made of light
And a diamondine body, crackling with fiery
electricity,
Soothed with the cool waters of emotion
And simultaneously, the freedom and flight of air.
Still, nothing is known but all; yet, poem illuminates
Like song reaches the soul, like soul has known song
since before time.
Like light knows light, commingling,
As candle lights candle - from wick to wick
So the planets know, and greet their faces, spinning
masks
For hidden cores.
The soul is like an apple, carrying the seeds of a
spiritual art
Amid an unassuming form. Strange, that the seed is no
mere creation,
But instead the very potentiality for limitlessness,
That very Creation itself
Which seeded the boundless and vast universal law,
In that tried art over and across time,
That become articulate light, fiery symbols
Which speak of and for themselves
And witness the unfolding of the stars.

The daimonic paths
Are each tempted, like veins of fate.
And each day, fate tempts,
In a glance, in a round, in a being led astray
From the path in the wood, which gloamed gold and
bright
As it was weaven by a singular thread.
The sun toils each day, weaving dark webs in shadow,
This sun of a thousand suns,
This bright, looming star.
For a body of light seeks destiny like it’s source;
In darkness looms a glowing field
of black pitches, and infinite expanses.
It lo-s and shutters and jettisons,
Like a great ship.
Fore the island of space and time,
Between expanses, burns a great fire.
For in each glance there is a crossroads;
For in each figure and face there is a dark yearning,
Which burns bright and steals away in language.
Life is a totem, a totem of desire;
In each face is etched the full of life.
From birth to death is stretched the weaving;
In each broach and pin is a waylaid life,
Caught at a way station, a musing, a circle, a memory
And lived in the ticking clock of time
Like a shadow of repetition.
Each day, the daemon tempts,
In a yearning to remember;
In a yearning to forget.
The daimon within, the life I lived,
Leaping, like the shadow of a fire
A mirror of possibility, threatening like a storm,

Threadbare like a wanderer in the night,
Beckoning like a destiny.
Like beneath a cloak of flesh,
There is but the gambling, rambling bone.
One looks without and sees darkness,
But the sparkling, refractory diamond,
Glittering in the desert’s distance.
To water, roam,
To feast roam,
From famine into the expanse,
Like for more, there is the ocean’s mouth,
The tiger’s breath,
The whale’s taste,
And the breathing vacuum of the humming attractor
To which all songs sing, toward blackness,
Toward fate and destiny.
Like a boat pitching in the annals of the night,
Heroism, too, pitches and pails,
In the ride of the storm
Like a leopard’s tail.
Hold - for destiny is like an electric foil;
In each night there is an awakening;
Behind each ecstasy there is a truth,
In the nature, in the loaming jungle wood
Desperate for compassion,
Desperate for love.
And so the night is turned,
Pitched, and turned to wreck.
Like a civilization receded to ivy,
Greed and fury will out, rape and half life
And the desert expanse,
Like a dying grape upon the vine,
Rotted; recoursed to ground.
For no broad feet to stomp to wine,

For no broad feet to dance to madness
And produce the heady brew of song -
And so the night is turned,
Despairing, mad, and brooding of solitudes.
Some hunger for love in food and drink,
Some hunger for love in gods apart,
Hid in the heavens, as the world sours,
As in a marketplace of spoiled appetites.
For the daimon grins,
Paths crossed, without lamplit of the heart,
In a night that extends like a black sun upon the black
dirt,
In each direction a path,
And in each path a splitting tributary,
Deep into undisclosed jungles;
Deep into forbidden wilds.
The lamplit heart guides,
Where there is no land nor light -
Where the tiding star is eclipsed;
Where the journey is cloaked and shrouded
Like some forebiding stranger -
Lingering at the gates of love.
Spin the dial, spin the top,
Like a refractory diamond, like a search for forbidden
ecstasies.
Mistresses tick,
And time slides like a dancer.
Each night is an island, unmoored, and with endless
direction.
An encampment?
A broach?
A bead, upon the necklace of the unknown Aeterna?
Whose neck is blue and black,
Whose tongue is fear?

Nigh, laughter, and the yearning for companionship.
Where compass is compassion,
A warm meal, amid the glowing inn
Of love and camaraderie -
A folk song, sung in meeting heart’s song,
A language glowing
Like the meeting of kindred fires.

The world is a veil for spiritual enlightenment;
The soul is like a night upon vast blue black oceans,
With only a full moon’s shining,
A sensory refraction,
A memory of the depths
Touched by the light of God.
The senses are imaginative.
Imagine, if the streets cooperated with the desires of
the eye.
Beggars are gods and the trees are tired mystics,
Bending and breaking their bows;
Shedding this mortal coil.
Tears of the morning change into beautiful women;
Mistresses of the night shift into vows,
Their night going up like smoke.
This land is a pilgrimage of hidden eyes,
With symbols and signs
Shining their deep power,
Tugging, pulling force.
The genitalia are pulled toward oblivion,
The next adventure,
Consummation, and the wild dissolution of ecstasy.
The birds sing and scream for death,
And winter is a glad swan’s song.
Shedding these tithes and bonds,
Breaking for a new body
Beneath the pack of snow
In the warm, dark bed of soil.
Souls take to the body like a seed takes to the earth;
With feeling,
Light the grounds of the flesh like a lamplit room,
Making space for paradise,
Upon a welcome mat of the liver

Or the terrace of the earlobe.
Where there is tension and resolve,
Like a composition, or the gritted mouth of a prize-
fighter.
This agon, like stairs,
Before the veil of enlightenments,
Leavening the body,
And raising it to the stars.

Spinning, the wheel of the stars,
Where it will land, for a brief moment, uncertain,
Where the tree turns to stone, and the ash turns to sea,
What will become of the thousand eyes
That summon me to this place,
At once a massive womb
And burial ground?
The eyes turn, shift, throw back their lids
In orgasmic ecstasy,
Showing their whites,
Like dice, or a spinning top,
This entire world is built on chance,
The collision of love;
The fortuitous gamble of time.
Throwing the bones, the fates are like diviners,
Seers, for each eye meets eye,
In fear, in hunger, in trials, in the spinning dials of the
sun,
From summer to spring, the burial and resurrection of
the light.
To the night, to the death,
And return.
Is it war, or jest?
Laughter, or this game, which furrows brows, twists
faces,
Evokes fury
Like a golden apple thrown to the gods.
Upon the ruination of war,
There are streaks of blood
Like a mad painter’s canvas;
Like a maypole’s ribbon.
Bull to red cloth, man to light; moth to flame,

To tithe and tithe again, at the great fire
Which burns and perishes all awake,
Like a pinching molecule;
Like a shooting starlight.
Escape, for like a stone’s prison, ground to dust; press’t
to paper,
Ground to ink and foil -
Grins the daemon, made of the black,
All that the eye does not see,
All that the scrying does not reach -
Infinity.
For the personality has many sides,
Dimensions, like folds in the skin,
Like waves in the sea.
Like creation, God proclaims,
There are many ways to crucify me.
Between snow and distance,
Between oasis and time,
Between the beggar and death,
There is a glimpse, a window -
And like a dervish, time is wound
Like a finger upon a string,
Like a string upon a guitar,
Like a prison upon a barge,
Adrift in an endless sea.
Adrift, and hungry like dogs,
A ceaseless hunger, in the belly of the fire,
Which tosses used bones like a change of clothes -
Flesh upon the pyre-light.
What once was ceaseless, endless night
Is changed by the eyes which twist and turn,
Frantic for a vision;
Turned within in a moment of rapture.

Is the dream but driftless orgasmic sleep?
Those who are awake touch a stone, a lover, and tell
the difference.
What is death but sexual reunion?
What is day but that which awaits the dais of night,
Lover’s caress?
Lovers come and go like prisoners,
Like madmen in asylums,
Whose only remembrance is etchings upon the stone
walls;
Clasped hands upon the prison bars.
Who knew and held this body,
Who held this face and hands,
Who touched this passing thing
In the torch of a moment
Between marches, between lands,
Between destinies.
Life’s nomad,
From town to town and bar to bar,
Eyes shrouded beneath a cloak.
For what is life but faceless breath?
Drinking it down and burning the rest,
In a fiery belly.
And so the top spins,
Flashing a brief sign,
From war to war, and from sigh to sigh,
Like a garden or a novel.
So too, the seasons change, and the fluid of life’s blood
is passed
Like a hand-me down, or a beaker,
From body to body, sunflowers of the mind
In their brief emergence -
Seeds to soil the fallow ground.

Rejoice, brief moment, and throw your bones -
Alas, this life was a gamble at birth;
I emerged like a lion, changed like a child,
And grasped at the face and lips of a million masks.
All were foils, daemons around the bright white seat
Of the light of God, that shone within me,
Like a diamond mine, like a native sun.
To change the changer
With hammers, or drums
Is the art of life:
Infinite Creation.

And like a tree to water, that which I need is to me
To walk like a comet, among the fallen red petaled
leaves,
Among desolation, solitude
Between agonies and ecstasies, between boredoms and
entertainment
Is the path wound like a spider’s web,
Like a compass thru seemingly impenetrable seas.
In the nights of the blue black abyss, and the stillness,
there are still the stars,
Gleaming, whispering, winking,
In a great universal conspiration.
To weave my path, I know,
In a vacuum, in solitude, I walk, as I would walk
among a crowd of men
Or a loud, gusting breeze.
As I would walk among tombstones, or a
congratulatory parade.
Still, the sun greets me; still the moon greets me
Amid the bows of trees,
Like lost soldiers to a foreign battlefield;
Like drunkards to a bottle of port, finding brief
destination in the high
Which levitates flesh above the ground,
To be drunk upon the poem is to whisper in the
graveyard;
To write treatises among the dead,
Gallant and foolish alike, singing the eternal song
With each breath, trashed, reticent, hiding among dark
rooms,
Braving storms of the heart, reciting political speeches,
In prisons of rectitude, orators of asteroids -
And their song is a tidal wave, a great mass.

Wandering aloud, like a calf for covering, like a whale
for family,
Like a stray molecule of water for a river, a stream,
A fish from land.
So do slivers of consciousness move about the dials of
magnetism.
Called to me a lover, by the dials of fate, called to me a
calm moment,
Hid, swathed in the blankets of curtains, from which I
write this poem -
To summer a sleep in some cave,
To solitude, where the heart’s song is clearly sung.
In solitude, hearing the breath; in solitude, the breath
matched to the twirling of the stars.
Of the past, I comb like fallen hair.
What will become of these etchings of a life, these
pathways which converge
Like synapses in the starry night sky?
To each decision and choice I am met
With a thousand different versions of myself.
And yet, my heart betrays no infidelity to itself, and the
path is clear, almost chosen before time,
Like an angel of the soul, who whispered all along and
before
The way of which I will walk,
Retracing a future step,
Hearing a footfall from a great distance, a step already
taken
Along the winding path of life.
So if it is destined, by the clear beatings of my heart,
Bring forth that which is true - bring forth that which is
within the soul;
So this is the art, the native expression
Rhythm in time:

Cosmic time is ground, like marbles in the sky,
Or giant birds circling, around the cosmic mechanic
clock.
Strings wound ‘bout the gears, whose gravity is a
chime.
The push and pull of their magnetie, and negation
Like an adagio symphony.
O’ perfection, miraculously maintained,
Like a predictable fruit or plum,
Produced, as if from the great soil and furnace of the
earth,
Like and like human factory.
When darkness beckons, in clearest night, the
constellations remain,
Twirling and sparkling in their eternal perfection.
For each night, one might go out, but their mosaic
maintained;
Their epic heroism inscribed in the skin and face of the
earth -
For each populace emerges from there, the Pleiades,
the jungle, Sirius, sine
And gathered around the fires
In warm vibrations and story-tellings.
O’ vehicle of life, thy symmetry and sinew,
Is great, almost menacing. Within these boxes beat
same hearts,
In rhythms almost predetermined - to go with your
clock in 4/4 time,
Or an escalation of fear and excitement, to go with
these great drums
In electrocutions and awakenings, of fits and starts, of
moans and sleeps,
Of memories of the ancient drum, which pounds thru
the earth

Like lava and fissures of spring water.
This river runs down the mountain like neurologies -
The synapses of the stars, and their river -
The great mind.
Who am I, in this rememory -
A symphonic, a giant eye, scried about the asteroid belt
And the touch of a hand, a muffin, a giant clock,
The body it ticks, and knows - gears of organs,
Like muffles and songs of the forest floor, whispering
fungi
Whispering trees.
Consciousness like feeling arms and hands extends
Great distances,
And in unforetold places.
Dimensions,
Imagining annals
Of the mind.

Flowers, flowers, like the lotus,
Are the music the planets make - great balls of
energetic yarn,
Batted about by the black cat of supraspace.
For this world is a great play, done about by a child,
pure anima,
Like a mother, like a wife, like the womb of the earth,
Like the impulse to creation,
Like a birth.
Coming into being, is being itself -
Winding its way about the yarn, this thread and string
like lightning,
Singing electricity, wound about the battery of the
blackness,
And bourne from it, like an apparition,
Are the articles of space and time, like clothing, like
leopards,
Which Dionysus rides, Christ, pure energy,
Pure feeling, mote and muted, singing and sprouting
are the waves
Of ecstasy transmuted, into campfires and mountains,
Into faraway plains of existence.
For they wander thru their own burning,
Searching for it,
Absurd, contradictory, paradoxical,
Nonsensical.
For like the world is turned inside out,
Exposing its organs and bones,
Beating heart, foxes and stones,
Trees which loom and breathe;
Doors which creak and moan -
Gates to the other side of paradise,
Where the maw is black and gaping;
Where the drip of blood perishes

And is extinguished in the fire
That produces diamonds.
Time and space, pressure and force;
The breathing of contradictory opposites
That are at once the same,
The air and fire of spirit
The water and earth of matter
Form and dissolve
In seasonal rhythm,
In conjunction and opposition.
For life is a war and a peace with playthings;
To realize such a war is its end.
Debates and sparring words crumble to dust,
Leaving only the spirit of the world
Sprung from its casing like the egg of a hen.
So it is with men - that the soil of the womb is nothing
but desire,
As it fertilizes, bubbles and ferments
Like the cauldron of the fates -
Entwining their destinies into a mosaic,
A mosaic which moves the wondrous mechanism.
Union, silence, together, and apart,
Like lovers - mimic the stars
And the grand clock of time, signified and symbolized
By the wandering bodies; the plenary diamonds,
Each of which shines a hue of meaning;
Each weaving a composite letter, a burning archetype
of feeling -
A mimickry both high and low.

Thru the groves of trees, rushes the spiritual warrior
At once a flea on the back of the earth, and a cosmic
heroism,
At once a star and a winking, at once a stone of ash
and a hidden sun.
Tossed between meaning and meaninglessness like a
flip of a coin,
Like a face reflected in the lapping waters of the ocean
of Eternity.
Bewitching solitude, and the stoic eye, which
unfocused
Fades into the light of the beyond
And has secret visions of death -
For life is a summons and we must go, beyond the
fields of the known
Into the place of Eternity,
Hidden and sequestered like a black island, rowed
And laid with eyes of silent vision.
For what is death but life crossing over? Transfixed
between this world and the next,
With one foot in the dark, and the other in the day,
Man is a vision of himself which he never fully sees,
Always perfect, infinite, and pure - like mountain
spring water,
And yet the face within him changes in each passing
moment,
Like an art inflected with time.
For he is before the cosmos like an orchestra, a great
symphony,
Whose tectonic plates shift beneath him; whose starry
eyes shift above him,
Whose heart beats and whose maw breaks,
Like a dawn; like the black and blue waters of the
waves.
For each Eternity is a mystery, a pocket, a secret kept,

A whisper, a spurrier, of life whose time is hurried, who
seeks dimensions;
Who strides with broad feet toward adventure.
Life whispers us forth, with the promise of soul
Imbedded in each small mystery, encounter, person,
and inflection of twilight.
Whose eyes are case before the setting sun, seeing both
light and shadow
Seeing both man and daemon,
Life live and unlived,
And yet, the shroud of possibility, like a sybil in her
hut,
Pronouncing her art?
O’ Time, weak and engaged is the man whose bows
are broken beneath the feet of change,
Who is changed again and yet again at the foot of the
fyre, like at the roots of the great tree
Whose lightning limbs are stretched o’er the bows of
the universe;
Dropping beings like fruit to the black soil’t grounds,
Where they swim among existence and space like fish
in a bowl,
Their shadows upon the glassy walls -
Their dreams etched upon the mountains; engraved
within the pyramids and grounds,
Like lost relics
Brief savior, companion,
For a time, I walked with thee, and I learned - of life
beyond the bows of my own tree,
Each entranced with their own secret ecstasy, close to
madness,
Each private mind is like a brother,
Translating the ineffable feeling; the inexplicable
nature,

Twitching and beating the drum - to what have I
known, that I could and could not say?
The limits of my language, left unbeknownst to you,
My companion, my lover, my family, my soil, my time

All of which have come and gone, come again in
changed face
Like a procession of masks, like a witch doctor, like a
shamanic ritual:
Psyche revealing and psyche concealing,
Like the game of a child, like a peek-a-boo:
Between black darkness, daemon, and the light of a
child’s eyes -
For you I have seen love, and for you I have walked,
brief sojourn
To and from this night like a village, and to the next,
This procession of nights like a funeral.
But I do not mourn Death, Death exalted —
For like a hymn which must begin and end,
So do I sing and come to cease, silence,
And in darkness is revealed the star. Do not encroach
this alchemy,
This delicate birth of the child, for each rolls around in
their tomb,
Like a pig in mud, like an egg breaking, like a delicate
amber casing,
Yet hardened and unhardened by time, met by this
hand and hammer of the mind -
To be shattered and awakened;
To be made whole in the world, like Osiris,
Each one of you remembers me.
To give and take like bodies, from wholeness, is like a
shell
Shed by a cicada or a mollusk.

To go between diamond and diamond, is like the
infinite mind,
Each precious gem no less precious than the next,
without hierarchy;
Shining in an abyss without rule.
Such is the essence of perfection, from which this song
swings
Like a bow laden heavy with fruit.
For each labor in time was righteous and right,
For each labor in time was fulfilled with the fullness of
heart
Which saw with eyes of gold.
In so doing, life is returned and reunified -
And yet distinguished, like a heart among hearts.
Who so vowed to take on this body, and to take these
steps, measured,
In the hand which crafts constellations, and levitates
great bodies?
Among Jupiter, among Eros, among Life and Light?
What now Lifts Me? But myself,
That sacred essence which has endowed breath, and
yet now breathes alight,
Endows sanctity and perfection in each movement and
moment
Like waves of harmony -
O’ how your song is my song;
O’ how your song transcends teleology.
Divine perfection, is thus, without end.
To return to my song, like warm burrow,
Cast with personal light.
To know this arm and chest, to know this steady
breathing,
This light from the belly, this sacral rhyme;
This piercing eye, this beating heart.

Endowed with perfection, to Life I march:
This life that I am,
This drumbeat rhythm,
This song I sung.

Carpenter of the spirit, ash of the soul;
Blacksmith of the steel which moulds worlds -
From the aether and misty lightness of colour,
Like dew on a morning’s evening -
Thru contradiction formed, like pressure and fyre,
Like heat and steel to steel -
Making the metal of the wandering body,
Swirling ore of heated stars and iron cores:
The gesture of making, by compound forces
Which shape the light path of the spirit and soul, in
sine
Down from aetheric heights of air, like wandering
mind, lofty, and electric
To form; compounds of metals and flesh,
Peel’t away, revealing mineral deposits,
Bone,
The organs which are the fiery inter-connectors of the
stars;
Nebulaic rivers, from spirit to stone,
From pure light of mind in hue of feeling,
Touches the spirit to the well of the soul,
Transmuted thru water, down thru aeonic chambers,
Like a birth canal to flesh,
Speaking by eye; breathing by heart’s beating -
Revolutionary - like a planetary spinning,
Like a top, like a dial of time
Like a diamond -
Whose reason incarnate - Learning, Knowledge,
Experience, Trial,
Purgated thru fire and resurrected thru ash;
Mineral explosions, like dynamite, do stars clash;
Make love and make war indistinguishable,
Frictive tinder by their burnings, lashes of radiation,
sparks and flares

While within the kitchen of the planetary body
A soft core simmers, like a great volcano
Spirit seeks body, to change hue,
From painterly gas of feeling to flesh,
Charm’d, by ear and eye;
Sensed, in the dynamism of twos.
Together and apart,
The fleshy hands of the planets dance,
Entwined and yet sovereign,
Naked and spinning and yet whole
By their orbit of lock’t eyes.
And body flies - like breath, like the lilting birdsong
To dance in the plenary realm of the lights
Where there are but warm fyres,
Where all but images and their symbols dissolve
Into the night sea of feeling -
Clangs, and sparks flew like stars
In the populace of black, lifted and remained
As if in some chamber of suspension,
Stilled, and boiling from within -
Clangs, like a rolling bell, deep from within the belly of
the ironworking -
Like a mine is space, like a pilgrimage,
A massive track’t of veins,
In the workings of a brain -
Trafficking in symbols, feeling,
And the transmutation of spirits to souls;
Fyres to ore; fiery writings to stone,
Carved from the breath of angels, their mimickry
Is but and like a learning, etched from the molten
fabric of the soul,
The volcanic, boiling reach
A cosm of the essence of the stars
And the warm interpolations of cloudy gases,
Wanderings of the spirit,

Whose mind in feeling takes hold,
Hand and fist in melancholic asteroid,
Flesh of the planet,
Dawn of the flower,
Life of the being
To be changed and changed yet again;
Refined in the iron ore of paradise;
Loose’d, free from hold,
Achieves suspension, levitation,
In the gallery of the lights like an etching,
Like a moving painting,
A shifting composition,
Which moves with the angular body of a free cell,
Loose, shaken from the clothes
From flesh hidden into feeling entirely,
Like the soul’s music made manifest in the colours of
the spirit -
Thus High, unreachable, untouchable,
Close and Primary to God.
In these bricks of hands and stoic armour of the body,
The feeling is in chambers,
Stews and boils,
Comtemplates and furies,
Raging for expression; geysers
Like a volcanic eruption.
Words the mouth speaks, untrap’t
Like Orpheus, in the clean mountain spring of music
Are themselves first principles,
Unadulterated, and Primary to Music.
For they are the interspersions,
Connected, and retaining the electricity which birthed
them,
The fyres which contained and held them;
Smithy of language

Which remembered, connected from seed to stone to
spirit,
From world tree to the lightning which transcended it,
From brick of hand to fount of soul and the spirit of the
eyes which watched over,
Their countless constellations like a stadium,
Like a mind of untamed diamonds,
Sparkling in the aetheric field -
Freed the soul like Prometheus from its prison,
And like this - from agonies to ecstasies descended and
alighted the stairs
From feeling to feeling;
Released from the casing of this body
To wander among the plenary fields of the stars.
Mind is prism, reflectory of thought,
Seed’’ore of feeling.
And so it is that each animal nature feels:
Prison of fear, freedom of love;
Immortality of the soul, wandering
From casing to casing, from body to body,
From magnetic field to magnetic field,
With harmonic qualities of music,
Orchestra of sensation;
The levity of which is the aesthetic quality,
The manifestation of the soul’s quality and feeling.
Mask’t and unmask’t about the great fyre,
The pyre who alights the sky and the flesh
And contains a thousand names,
A thousand faces, who are living letters
And speak to me and thee -
Who speak of pride and war,
Who speak of rememory:
Burn and burn again,
Turn and turn again,
In etchings of the divine profectory-

Chiseled and polish’d a thousand times o’er by lives
You who have sung in waves
Who crashed up upon the shores of being,
Achieved fleshy form;
Who crashed up against the tempesting masses in the
great storm which achieved no shore,
Pure feeling in the sea of blackening,
The lights of being, awaiting,
Like lighthouses ‘yond the mists of the storm and
crashing,
Whose eyes peered solely from the abyss and waiting
To be called once more:
Who wandered in the darkness before birth and after
death;
Who were calling madly and remembered

Neath the dew of time, waits the silence
Humming, interconnected and electric
Veins of the spirit which spin
From the nethers unto the eye
Which sees in total darkness
Which tastes in total absence
The technology of the body
Organic and cosmic
Breathes in and breathes out,
Consumes and makes flesh
Like the skin of the ether
Breathing of the black hold,
Stillness of the infinite
Awaiting, like a memory of time
From hitherto return
Languageless infinity, storyless dimension,
The pure thrust of creation
The primordial bloodflow
Which animates the dawn
Which breathes life into the fawn
Which makes the story time
Which puts planets into motion
Their wandering bodies,
Seeking thou they think
The veins of existence
Traveling the energy
Likened cosmic root, communication of trees
Network of fungi, wisdom of forest
Likened plant and animal
Likened planet and man
Likened aether and black matter

Likened sun and skin.
In each mass equivalent masslessness
In each spirit, the reflection of the deep
For in all that what is lost
Appears all that day would keep
But for a brief moment, existence.
But for a brief moment, existencelessness.
The game of time is a turning over, like a coin.
Giving and taking in equal measure.
No story resists the turning of the page
Upon which the wordedness was projected.
For in each shadow of the fiery word
Is the image.
In the expansion of the eye
To seeing deeper realms
All languageless infinity
A neurology of veins and synapses
Like a cosmic mind,
Like a single brain.
For from all language flown,
Signalling
From great distances, incredibly close
As is connected by the vein.
How do I know the deep past,
How do I know the far reaches of the future –
I am born from the ashes of time;
I return to the mote node,
The atomic sine.
All that exists, energetic
Dancing and communicating within the intricate
design

From whence all collapses and returns,
Energy consumed and digested,
Resummoned and scat
Returned to the soil,
Reborn to the sunlight from the shades –
Given to the byss and turned over,
Returned to the pure energetic sign,
The black light.
Soon to be swallowed by byss
Can it be said to have lived, but brief summons
To this gates of time
Passing thru the gradient of light
To be remade anew
In a different shade,
Subtle branches of the unseen time –
The dark substance of the infinite
Cast and recast in a thousand moulds
A thousand heads and a thousand masks
Brought and worn by the black branch,
Behind each face, the shining and reverberating
nothingness
Which sings the hum, lo tone of silence
Potentiality
Neath the fiery cast, poured the ether
Into energetic moulds and forms,
From the pure thought like fire
From the word that is unspoken and yet speaks
everywhere
Here and there, near and far,
The impenetrable, essential
From which all springs and returns –
That which is all four seasons,
And all four directions of space and time.

None flee from the unknown, but from themselves
Being the very unknown,
Bottomless well of potentiality,
The infinite etheric self, beneath personality,
Beneath organism, beneath temporality –
The shining blackness from which thought and form
and feeling is born
And just as soon returns to the essence –
The fire of anger, the brook of melancholic
contemplation
The name of the child and the spirit of the age
All reflected in the black river of shadow,
Writ backwards and returned to the cosmic nature
Prismless, neath the reflection
Without light to catch it.
For all streaming river, neath the wound of the galaxy,
Lifebearing, the slip, thru which the word tumbles,
And neigh, reflected and is looked up at by the stars
This strange dimension of the mirror
Where words dance around their totem,
Where pyres are burning behind their blackness
Where silence stands neath the tirades of time –
All hail the blackness in their desperate fury
To escape the essential
Which stands around them
Like the truth of cosmic nature.
Who embraces death
With the wisdom of one who is not returning;
One who has never left?
To go back and forth from life and death like a
doorway is madness,
To go to war against oneself
To rage against the truth for the image of the lie,

The painting of nature, in one’s own imagination
And refusing nature itself,
The sheer force of imagination
Which is like an endless spring, renewed,
Tossing away the garments of the old age;
Tossing away the garments of civilization and time
Which is shed like rubble from the angel’s back,
Gleaming, shapeshifting,
The energetic snake which writes and writhes from
skins
Into bright new destinies.
For time is the endlessly renewable, the shaking of the
temporal from itself
Like water from the hair of the bear in the daylight
In the stream where the bones turn to stones
And God gambles with the dice of cliffsface
Neath the turnings of the millennium, accumulated like
a memory and shed
Life from the crust of the infinite, leaping into the
blackness like a spark,
Creation which games upon itself,
Gaming, forsaking time
As it has come to pass –
Motility. For how it moves, like the body of an inferno.
Shaking the leaves from the trees,
Or burning away the past fire.
Taking the imago of flesh and purgating it,
Sweating it away, swearing the past word;
Breaking the stone of time,
Away in a flood of eternity.
How the ocean moves, stoic and almost silent
In the sound that is always made,
The sound of breaking waves.

Hum, the silence unbroken, unbent
Forged like gold in the darkness,
Unbroken by the mad ravings of kings,
Unbroken by the chaos of the infant minds of men,
Chasing their worldly measure and weight
Crumbled to dust in their hands –
For no truth could be held but the being there in the
byss
The shadow figure from which light radiates,
From which electricity flows and fluctuates,
As in a passing through,
Could not be possessed there in that opaque world.
Reason, were none, having, but few
And all having none.
Beggar and king same, all neath the Truth
Which is the cosmic world and domain,
Not world but Reason and Nature, held claim and
sway
In the comings and goings of men, drivel in the self
mockery
Which is image and distraction, worldly gold,
Which vanished just as soon in the beating of the waves
And left them to face their own madness
As their civilizations turned to dust.
Followed their ravings, skyscrapers, metropolises,
The mad beating of the drum, faster and faster,
Raving to accomplish the possession of eternity,
Which evermore slipped from their fingers, fell from
their grasp;
Drowning men desperate for water;
Parched in the thirst of the sands of eternity,
Staring up at the gaping hold of the stars,
As it passed thru their neglected bodies –
Shoveled like a prisoner’s raise,

Tasked to fulfill the image of nothing, cast as world
Aping the starring man,
Enraptured by the projection of truth, the story of life
Told like the bars of a cage
Painted for empty desire, the uncapturable;
Evasive like the image of beauty;
Flattened like the depths of the image, with nothing
beneath
But empty dreams and broken promises
Made by those equally lost; driven mad by the greed of
gold;
Knowing nothing of the soul within,
The very beaker and chalice, grail and mould
Thru which the electric light of the cosmos is pour’d,
The very force of life which is a communion
Required stillness and silence;
The end of all stories and empires,
Mad ravings and chasings of the mind
About which the world is made.
Driving endlessly toward the final image, the final
satiation,
Projected the engine of the body outward, the cosmic
vessel of energetic movement,
That which consumes and digests, the stoke’t fires thru
which is forged the cosmic man,
The crucible of enlightenment
Thru which man is a vein and flows
With Divine Emanation –
There was no wisdom in the worlds of men
But the madness of distraction, the chasing of the tail of
all that is not but death,
The end of the snake’s head, self consumed,
The energetic whirlwind of transformation
With all ends forbid,

An eternal beginning
Like a dream in the mind of a child
Uninitiated, a dream of the exclusion of Nature
By the nodal mind of Nature itself,
Like a flowering in desperate forbiddance of death,
Peel’d against the ground, seeking soil, to return to the
womb
Against the beating waves of time
And in this madness, swimming upstream like salmon
In the despairing eyes of time,
Beating back against death
At the edges of the eyes like consciousness
Forming in the dawning waves of time,
The growth of feet and the marching out of the
dimension of water;
The dimension of materiality –
Fearing the realm of the spirit; the abolition there
Of the forces which once held it, ensconced in the
womb
Capt in a prism of time.
Fleeing eternity, all
For the false sanctity of the image –
Flat and held up in the moment; sustained by the
shoveling of life force energy like coals into the
monolith
Built by man to sustain a myth of time standing still,
Not of eternity but to remain like a puer in the face of
time
Refusing the seasons of the fall but for an eternal
spring;
Neath the image, of decay, ruins, decrepitation
Form at surface only, an appearance
Betrayed neath the screen by the stench and the
madness of fear
Which is the encroachment of Nature’s Turn.

This delusion takes hold in the hearts of men and holds
captive time like the prism
Frozen and dead, worshipped like a grave,
Endlessly turned t’ward the past that never was
But like a ghastly memory
Frozen in the imagination of time and unrelinquished,
Never turning bout to face the true movement of life
This Presence –
Which burns like wrathful fyre, to burn away the
illusion of the image
And present the utter fullness of being
Like a true vision;
There, would be to liken
The turning face of the shadow
The beast which beckons forth
To the real life of man.
To turn to face life is like the loosening of the veins,
The opening of the breath
And the return to the openness of Being –
Uncaged and unknown, and thus entirely true
Without name or totem or time,
Beating in a changing pulse;
Ever energetically renewed
At new frequencies and measures
Untethered to the form of man or beast or god,
Image or story or tale,
Flower or garden or creature
Which slouches and lo’s, sleeps and times,
In its own private rhythm, but for a moment,
Shedding the skin of new densities –
The veins of fate move like destiny,
The everchanging compass of the dial
Which is worn and thrown and shed and torn

Like from a page of a dimension,
Like from a rhythm to a syncopation,
Like a being in the break of a new fold;
An overturning both miraculous chaos,
Shedding the word.
For being chanced new form, and entirely relinquished
welcomed new dawn;
This is the soil of man,
Charred and yet like a forest razed and overgrown,
born from the ashes;
Awaiting the rain as it is awaiting the fire
Awaiting the renewed chalice from which it sat and
from expulsion
Tumbled like dice into a new paradigm, forego the
clock and cloak of time
And slip into these new eternities,
Like flowering masks, soils and slippers
There taking new garments and dancing
Be ever grating suns against the black,
Ever returning and in paradise,
The gratitude for death and the summons further
The death which is an overturning.
So sleeps man, tomorrow forest floor, dreaming
And chasing dreams like the fury of an animal,
Passionate for flesh and blood and meat;
Passionate for something
Which dawns upon him like an idea, and thus he
chases
Round about the maypole of life, round about the
turning of the ages
And their histories like an endless wheel of repetition
Sheer difference only in the apparition or the image
Neither in his response to the notion –

Transcending the idea
Man bursts into the plenum like a birth
And abides there in the timeless realm,
Floating as if emerged into a true vision of the aether,
Among the stars, chasing down nothing and the final
redemption being pure life itself without admonition
There being nothing there but shadows
And neath the shadows being the pulsation of the
energetic life source
Which returns the stars and galaxies to the black, and
breathing
Like a pulse which takes man to the furthest and
nearest of his cosmic body,
The far reaches of the cosmos which to him are like the
mind’s eye to the foot and leg, traced and traveled like
neurology and bloodline,
Neigh, not reaching back thru time or space but
traveling from within himself,
From here to there which is truly all at one and at
once.
Returned to his body, then, wholly,
Breathed in the True Dimension, which is his eternal
name, birthright unto the death of all that is naught,
Traveling thru the shadows of the idea
He arrives at the truth of the mind’s eye, the pulsation,
Which is a sining, an arriving which is a fluxing,
A mergence, up and down the scales of the cosmos,
A breathing which is a transcending and descending,
Down thru the boroughs of sleep,
And up thru the annals of the sun,
Rising and falling in the plenum like a serpent’s dance,
Reaching into soul like a pocket or a soil
And rising into spirit like a flying, free hand –
There God which reaches God, the inmixture of the
plenum

E’er present and sourcelessness but beating in the
rhythm of the body which receives it,
Body within body and body out of time,
The privacy of rhythms, coalescing into a dawn
breaking chorus,
Breaking and retrieving these private solitudes
From which these mixing word emerges
And dance out in the light and break into the shadows
To resummons, their resurgence in the sleepfall, the
quiet chirping of the node beneath the dawn
Come down to rise from the mud and make flesh and
scream in the nest of the body of Christ,
Back to the silent contemplation, affixture upon the
black silence, the circle from which the cross is painted
within,
The dancing dream of space and time,
And those transfixed by the dance, those dreaming of
births and graves
Of fame and the world of men,
The game of civilization, the game of stories,
The game of meaning – there being prisons
But from the free realm of the absolute spiritude
Which spreads and spread from the furthest closeness
In each moment infinitely present and accessible from
within the body
That being the node
Communing beyond space and time
Within the body of Nature
Not merely an earthly rhythm, tho earth being like a
constellation,
Not merely being a galactic rhythm, tho galaxy being
like a constellation
But in the concentric circles of being, like a city of the
flesh of God,

Like a city of the veins, metropolis of presence, back of
the mountain snake
And ‘yond this dawn from which neighborhood
emerges, township of the Milky Way, ‘yond the reach
which splits the sky like a womb,
Further presence of being, ‘yond ears and eyes but for
the inner sense and rhythm,
The inner eye which intimately knows,
The native technology of the Comological Nature.
Thru the presence, rip’t the false garment of time,
civilization, the lies of man, lies told by one unknowing
to one unknowing,
Thru the presence the infinite accessibility of the
eternal,
In the communion with the intimacy of the body,
The vessel thru which the electric veins of the cosmos
pours,
Built likened to it, not merely in the image of God,
But in the plenum of God itself, like a stream,
Flowing veins of water which cover the earth,
Water of spirit and sense
Which cannot be given name, as it is that which from
name emerges.
The very speaking of the plenum speaks thru man,
speaks thru the stream,
Like the infinite babbling of the sacred language of the
cosmos,
Emergent in each chirp and rhyme of the passage of
time,
Given unto the bird’s mouth, the ape’s chant, the
leaves’ brushing, the deadened breaking of the branch,
And the returning of the soil and the underwater stone,
the rivers rushing; gurgling ‘yond reach and eye,

And their purity united in the divine plenum of the
song,
Orchestral in the cosmic ear and eye;
In their totality, a perfect humming,
That which is the life sustaining rhythm, the beating
and breathing, the symbolic changing and chanting
From which beneath life flows,
The outpouring of the generator, great fyre,
From which the chant is the noise of the pits
Clamouring and clanging, as the fyre churns and
changes
Shape and face and form, breathing itself in and out
And neigh transfixed, traveling onward to higher
realms, taking leave of the body and reorganizing itself,
In the birth and death of the galaxies of cells
Which form the great neural network of the cosmic
mind
Gone ‘yond the stories and myths of man
Gone ‘yond the neighborhood of galaxies
Into the plenum of the divine flesh, the spiritude which
forms the image of the body of man,
The sinew, the bones, the neurology, the veins of blood
Which dance and rush like the rivers of the stars
And the galactic humming, chanting and singing,
Signing their motors of the stars, to winking and
burning, and life flowing thru, the birth and death of
their light, burning so like a coming and going,
A taking and leaving form
The great snake of cosmic energy
Shedding skin and clothes
In an endless time out of time
Rushing blood thru the cosmic veins
Of God
And in the node of time, spaced like a marker

Given room and breathing, given vein and flowing
Passes thru the beaker
The rushing rivers of life
And into each changed form it takes,
Unto a new dimension
A gradient of light –
The errant intelligence
Reaching t’ward the infinite mind
To be united with plenum, wit’ the laws of Cosmic
Nature
Which precede it, give it name and whip and force,
Pass’t thru itself like a beaker, o’er time, is that the
movement
Seeks to know itself;
Neigh without, but looking within,
Is the wisdom of the essence found,
Simple and flowing; nameless and spaceless
And yet creating space and name and time
By its very moving flowing –
Thru the ages lit, like light from waters deep,
The plenum of the veins,
The synapses of God
That the brain is hid, is that the self is unknown
Scrying thru eyes that do not know themselves,
From whence they came and to whence they speak
Crashing like a mortal wave, to shutter their movement
and speech –
Eyes that take and give
Eyes that do not see
But for the glittering gold from without, which like a
reminder
Sparks the mind to reminisce, upon the mortal pitch
From which they fled the vein of forgetting

Into the black thud of form
Materiality, there caged, in the black night of
forgetting,
From whence they came, awakened the flesh
And set up, like a stage
And trawled the gates of the dawn,
Like a fish within the darkness,
Sensing in delusion,
Mole within the soil;
Blind away from the light;
Yet carrying the seed
Deep into the flow
Where time was pitched slow and yawning;
Where days and light crept meekly, in broad time
Like a scything pendulum of dawns and dusks
Like a crawl of the beating heart and the churning
flesh,
Boil’t anew from the anvils of the engine of the
stomach
And the fleshing, threshing flash of the groin
Which propell’d the movement further
Into springings of new night
From dusk to dusk they fell, into the yawning byss
And did not know creation’s name but from that which
called
From the consumptive engine
Like fyre seeking tinder, it called
Like blood to blood,
Lo’ing in the night
Like a panther or a steel mill
To thresh the elements into a new form,
The sculpting of the marbl’d land of mankind;
The sculpting of that which is beyond man today;
Beyond which language speaks, the fiery letter
Which seats within him

The churning diall of raging iron ore
Like that which the Cosmic Nature seats within the
flesh of the earth.
These wand’ring bodies seek with pitless stomachs of
fyre
To the gates of time, which held like a diamond in the
sediment of the belching gape,
The cliffs of the inner flowing, of the river fyre, laval,
The spinning of a harden’d element, bled and spun,
The dust of dust, the soil of soil;
The seed of seed.
Seeking within themselves, the belching pit, from
which infinity distilled, the perfection of the body
The unity of the flesh and the fleshless,
Threshed in the cosmic engine of space and time
In the parallax unity of the infinite
Seeded in the contradiction
Of the sands of time.
Ground and distilled, beat’ like gravity to a powder,
The lo’ing of the song distilled to a rhythmic chant,
A single note and the oscillation of silence like
breathing
Stamped the dirt and pared the soil for its rising,
Like the dawn of a flower,
Blooming mimickry of the planetry dance
Which swung above it and like a scythe laughing
To who those who understand death,
Call them, namelessness,
Call them, the dead
Call them the jesters of time
Laughing in different seats.
Take their brief name,
Running with the fire from within.

Learning then, that which sprang the plenary flower
Which blooms everywhere, the youngness
Unmoored by time and thus swinging wildly
Untempered by the rhythm which runs
In the waxing and waning of the rivers of light;
There which travels the vagabond, God
Flowing in endless measures,
Taking as many names and perceived
From great heights and lo’ rows as a rhythm
With many measures and hymns, sung by beggars and
swans,
Sung by ladybugs and nights,
Sung by the black waves which lap up against the
known,
True tellers of time
In that their rhyme is measured in shadows
And footfalls which are led by spectres of sight,
Called here and there for unknown reasons
Led like the dawn which treads like an infinite wheel,
Circulating the electric fleshly light
Call’d light to light
Undeceived by images;
Unswayed by worldly plays.
Like moths to flame, like man to culture
Condemns to the shadows behind the glass
Ne’re touching the light which would burn him to a
pyre,
A crucifix of shadows
Upon which the night would resurrect him
Like an overturning.
The revolt of empires and their burning;
The death of words;
In the gravenness of all images
Which are swung out of time; holding the breath of life

By a shoestring, hostage
To the memory of a dream,
To the obedience of a word
To the umbilical cord of fear.
For dreams do not die, they leave,
As the time leaves, flowing effortlessly
Like an image in a stream, a reflection in a river;
Like a face passing behind the glass of a dawn which
moves and churns as it must,
Not around the plenary rhythm,
But birthing and dispersed in all directions,
The seething of creation – bourne from the mechanism
And not, the disobedience of imagination;
The limits of memory, which enchant the limits of the
senses
To construct a world of the mind,
Arcane and closed off;
Imagined and thus beholden to that which is seen
In the mind’s eye;
All such beyond is wilds,
A jungle of the byss; that which lies in wait there is all
that the mind’s eye fears,
The confrontation a shattering,
For that which speaks has no language
Instead appropriates the wood, the mouth, the colour.
Becoming hues of wayshowing,
Representations of a deeper inner life
Deceiving beyond their map unto the gates
Of the depths.
Where the doors swing wildly and the grate is ajar
And that which speaks is wholly other; alien in nature,
Revealing the plenum. And yet the speech in tone is
known,
The feeling deeper than language;

Directly received at the level of the flesh; knowing the
flesh of God – received neurologically.
It is as spiritual blood receives spiritual blood
With immanence and feeling
Of the direct experience of truth
‘Yond the fold of reasoning men;
As the river flows,
Or the eagle flies.
Capt in simplicity, the plenum residing within the
mind’s eye
Carries the whole cosmos and yet holds none,
Rushing like a river; beating like a drum
Sum what to sum, and away to run
Again in the free sands of time, Like a field of ocean
To source and source again, of infinite inexhaustibility
Laughing and joyous, at once infantile and wise
To the hum of the stars, the cosmic one.
It speaks like a beaker, and endlessly flows
Rapt in all words and speaking none,
And as such speaks truly, giving and taking no
dimensional ground,
Residing whole at before the break, and yet taking and
giving the breaks gladly,
In pure aesthetic musicality, that time breaks to
timelessness
And flesh to the neurological movement of God,
Lit in galactic rhythm like a massive star,
Composed of the bodies of stars
And pulsing and churning the luminosity
Of cosmosbios
For what eyes to see and ears to hear
The life of the stars, cask’d, their outer rhythm leading
to their inner plenum

Eating the black matter with flesh’d bodies like great
gaping mouths;
Consuming and consumed
By the greater concentric circles which are their
buoyant mass,
Suspended as if churning in the great net of song, song
of songs
Which alights them upon the black ocean
Which is their wombing, wilding, arrival;
Their departure; the ground upon which they stand
And the ground which is foregiven
Presiding in a great suspension of the deeps
And murmuring, from each song parsed
The lapping of the waves up against the nothingness
Unliving – in spell, gainst the glass of the projected
light;
Living – immersed in the flow of the
cosmosbioluminescence;
Given the life to images; mere surface and surfeit
Convicted of separation; being away from God;
Thus turned against enemies like apparitions;
Thus turned away from Nature like a first deception –
The imagination of the mind riding wildly away from
its self essence.
These claims of madness normalized; this purview of
world sanctified;
This smallness of prison called living.
Built itself a fortress or cave, retreated into illusory
womb;
Slinking back into shadows; projecting images upon
the screens
Of its enclosed cave.
In fear they turn away from life; in fear they turn to
greed and overconsumption

Casting themselves in lone parts;
As severed from the metaphysic, they claim the false
gods,
Titans of time and gravity,
Pure body and sensation – like deranged nodes,
Frantic for realization; lost in the plenum like a maze;
Delocalized; living in a state of perennial decapitation.
The animal fear of death haunts them, like distant
thunder,
Knocking nearer, the loss of force, which was ne’r
gained,
But dispossessed at birth, and in the blackness of
forgetting, lost unto death
And this life but an exile, a turning from stone to stone
And a frantic breaking, for exit, for pleasure, for
meaning
And for purpose.
Lost of the plenum and dispossessed, they run mad and
wild
Imposing their own laws, scrawl upon the cavern walls
And write the ledger of desperate violence in the name
of self preservation,
Animal unto animal, severed bios from the unity of the
cosmos,
In fear of the unknown beyond within;
Tortured by the threat of loss,
Standing upon the threshold of the black gate;
Stricken and terrified
And yet unable to go back; to return
To the unknowingness of that presence.
Toss’d into birth, there first illusion, lost of the womb
And wand’ring, tugging on the chord of fate like an
umbilical cord,
Immersed in blackness,

All surrounded by the unknown which is the fear of
death;
Besmirched and dragged by images,
Illusions of strength, power, might, reason, and
wisdom,
All earthly apparitions of men who claim to know and
lead,
But know nothing of the spiritual essence of life;
Thus, are less than blind.
They drag men to perishing in the mud,
Squabbling over nothing,
Seeking to preserve an illusion
Swept away by time.
Only in this dream of time are they severed,
Fitting minds, away from the cosmic plenum which
flows thru them like veins,
The very imaginative capacity thru which they dream
wounds of separation;
Beg return, looking to an illusory past, or imagining an
illusory future –
Perennially disestablished from the immediacy of the
plenum, eternally present;
Eternally within, the source as body, body within
bodies –
The very lifesblood which beneath the deceptive
perception of opacity,
Flows beneath, within, and as all things themselves.
Awakened from the dream they are unified,
Immediately;
Eternally.
Descend and rise, as calls the rhythmic breathing of the
native cosmic time, leaving all behind,
Like stones in the river of a passing time
Ground to sea and salt,

Ground to inmixture and at last assume all passing
distance of water,
Not even dispersed and apparent
But entirely cosmologically self assumed.
As the names and faces change,
To at last to assume the great name and great face of
Eternity,
A thousand veined and a thousand eyed,
Ascending above, the level of the plenum where all
looks o’er,
Presiding as it does, essence, from both within and
above,
Both spirit and soul,
Both among densities and that which passes thru them
and dances
At a greater level, and assumes the guise and mask
Of all frequencies, all bodies, and all forms
As they snake through the gardens of the galactic nodes
of being
Their pulsar, shining like a code,
Beating in a song that is at once a living, riding,
vibrating symbol
That conveys both presence and the representation of
presence
Unified in an uninterrupted wholeness
That is language returned to speech
Unified to itself as in a baptism of fyre
As it holds no ledge,
At once the gaping black and the siren upon the edge
of time,
Songing the balance between the day and the night,
The emergent singing light, and the wreathing cosmic
blackness,
Which emanates waving rays of lo’ tone buoyancy,
The feeling which uplifts the planets,
The ground of their song and dance

The force of which from behind their mask dances the
fiery rhythm
Around the totem of the dying star;
Around the totem of the black star
Which eats and digests light
Like a hawk digests a snake
And travels great distances
Upon the wings of its back

Lo, naught but veins flowing in the cosmic night
Composition of this song, roughed by men’s lips
Spun discordant, rited by the hands of Fate
The veins that course
Vague of memory that gathers like stones
At the hands of men,
Wash’t away by the rivers,
Dark waters of poesy, which crash up against the night
And the stones which there affirmed the cliffside
Of temporary city
Wash’t away, the dissolution
To which meets the dark eye, cast down the waters
And emerged them there, in their shifting light
Cast down below, in shattered fragment,
Taking in a prism of truth, nourishment like,
There into their skin of the earth.
A thousand broken bones crafted the land
Buried into the ice shelves and stony holds
Scaffolding, within which the burning heated
Above and below,
Two great suns,
Emerging from darkness and kept hid in the opacity of
the earthen stars,
Likened and yet apart,
Like stations thru which the dark train wanders,
Bathed in night and thundr’s light
Like fish, reach with mouth and eyes
Across the darkened reach, particular,
Consumed the water and the nourishment
Like flesh and skin,
Emerged from the earth, dewy, the flesh taken in

And the blood which flew, as if sewn thru the body of
the earth
Wheat, chaff, hold and medicine,
Slew the pig and the calf
And blood like water upon the earth,
Red sun, white sun, black sun, and yellow sun
Upon the earth; received within,
Like a heated engine, which emerges from within
And is scried from without.
Arms reaching toward the light, planted
Nourished from within the soul, there hidden sun,
Scaffolded with green vein into deep space and time,
There traveled without destination,
There traveled without time,
But the breach soldered by that which is the dark
bridge,
The veins of light, unseen yet by inner eye,
Perceived, felt, and known
Like a great angelic ladder,
The descendent of cosmic information,
That which composes the fabric of the flesh, skin,
blood, and bone.
Yawning, cosmic blood, which rushes, to Fate
Ears and eyes finding their rightful place
In the churning of dimensions, Consumed
And wrangling Infinities like wild horses
To and upon the expansion of the breach, the
condensation of universes
Into one dewdrop of infinity
And the effervescent expansion, like an explosion of
great storms,
That which held within one eye
Had become many
And will return again to that one eye

Which is seeded in Truth, that many sided die
Thru which all light is cast; reflected prismatic
Upon that dimension, planted each and all
One vision of many which is that cosmic Art
Gradient of the painting, Consciousness

For that the world was off its axis, it was righted in
time,
By the thoughts and hands that sculpted the aether into
being,
Matter and flesh, into the world of time -
The pillars that gathered, shattered in sand,
The righteous that gathered, ascended in light,
Reformed in the clear vein of the skeletal lightning
Wrapt’ around the being body, entwined with the stars,
Wrapt’ around the blood, energizing and coursing,
Stimulating the eye, and mouth, fist, and hand.
Agents, like wandering planets, about the stars,
On their spiritual stilts, prop’t up in the abyss,
With legs and arms that spread, swirling in the starry
abyss,
Among the many things that are unseen;
Waiting, like the matter of thought, to be chiseled into
stone,
Painted into flesh, like canvases of time,
Prescient in their becoming, potentialities.
And in each moment, by Fate’s hand, moulded into
being -
Their orientation, change’d by face, spun by place;
Rippling off the canvas plane. For each moment
brought them hither,
With their angelic eyes, askew mouths, and unmade
principles,
Like they rose from mud,
But among their eyes were the flowers of the far
reaches of the universe,
Slowed in time, by their being first from the reach -
Cast deep into the mud and matter;
Slung deep into the ocean and stone.

All the wild matter of the sea and stars,
Accumulated, piled upon this moment so as to be rip’t
From the current of being, and flung askew,
To the far corners of space and time,
To regions populated only by spirit and vague
constellations,
In this unmapped abyss, ocean of the eternal,
Populated only by those who smoke their pipes in
solemnity,
Contemplation in the slow burning; the first and last of
matter and time
And their dissolution to the rafters of the temple of
God
Banging against the gates of infinity
With rapturous song;
Humming radiation; came from the first blast
Of the trumpets which lifted and lilted matter
From spirit’s breast -
And in their song they made crocodiles of discordancy,
And angelic harmonies; there they hid harmonies in
discord
And found sacred harmony where there was thought
to be only war
Hid inner perfection in the hindbrain of survival;
Cast golden song within the stone -
Living valleys and craters of matter; eyes where there
was desolation;
Breaking the stone there were angels in the ruins,
Looking back through time, observant
As if they were turning the pages of a great and ancient
book -
At once past and future, they were
The blood of ages,
Resounding and shifting shape, shifting form
In a blinding dawn, wherein apparition takes form

Unto new millennia;
The fold of new galaxies, the haze of sun spotted stars,
Dappling the night, glowing in the grandeur of their
coming together
And breaking apart; riding the rhythm
Where there are new universes.
And time shattered all things, man and beast and star,
And made them crystalline mosaic in the great and
ancient temple which is the Infinite, the sacred and
mote aetheric element
From which worldly churches are churned to dust and
stone and ash
In the massive purgatory of separativeness -
Touched and tasted, experimented -
For to be living is to be living apart;
To be life itself is to be effervescently whole with the
nature of being itself.
For that time shatters is that it reintroduces life to that
perfect nature of infinity.
Redemptive is time, for that it heals and seals the gape,
From which all life emerges in separate forms and
densities.
That it is granted cometude, or else the eyes of a
serpent,
Or else the mouth of a galaxy.
To each their sacred wound, revealed to the womb of
the earth, or some other star,
In a rotating abyss; exchanged the world of infinity for
the thin sanctity of time, to come and go in this brief
hour
Like a candle, spinning above the dawn, and
descending into the night of the flesh,

To light the wicker lamp of the skin, dripping with
sweat, boiling with flesh;
Haunched and haunted over the land like a great
beast;
A cattle and a throng, to take in this world like a great
sacrament,
Ingesting the jesting God.
Players of matter, emerged from the dawning fold,
To scatter and else play the trumpet or trombone,
Heralding the emergence of the wide body of time,
Like a whale or a colossus,
From the ocean of time, like a great fish,
To swallow and be swallowed, backed by the thrum of
endless infinity, sung like static,
The backdrop which lifted the planets
And the curtains upon this play;
Dancing, within their play is the dance of the animals
and plants;
Within their play is the dance of the mote
Heated in frenzy, cooled in the slowness of time;
Remembered in the variations of amber;
The heat of springtime sex; the close gatherings of the
sun
Which reaps man and life like a bushel of apples,
Or a flower of ants
Emerged from the soil and spread among the earthen
ground.
What is the destiny of man but to live like an arm or
leg of the cosmos, a branch or tree of the earth,
Populated with life, singing carbon,
Counterpart to the whispering of the roots beneath the
ground?
Rising to the sun and with singing speech, forgetting
matter but for a moment in the ecstasy,
And returning to the heartbeat rhythm of the soil?

Feeling, then, the population of the senses,
Which drive life to its endless ends.
Another seed sprung from the fallen ground,
Churned from crisp to fertile dirt like leaves;
Churned from towering empire to sand and stone of
the skin of the earth, flayed
And brought at once low and high to the annals of the
sedimentary body of the earthen land
High to the sun and stars which burn with prescient
light,
Reaching to the first form of spiritual fyre
Which birthed man and his word
With birthed the flowers and their word
Which birthed the dawn and how it speaks
Caressing, the dance of warming and cooling,
The nearness and farness of time – as it circles,
Like a great pendulum of attraction.

Traversing the planes
Each body a witness, each body a thousand eyes,
Collected in the galactic node, gathering of matter
Within the cauldron of transformation,
The vessel of the burning skin,
Churning in the night like a star - cresting the face of
the wave;
Submerging deep into the black of the night
Where the stars reflected down upon the water
And caught the flesh of the black, the fish glimmering
scales
In the trenches, lo and far beneath the dawn,
Calling to the light,
In their private attractors.
Far from the dawn they fell,
The eyes into blackness and darkness,
Fallen into sleep and madness, fitful, unwaking
And yet pounding at the gates of making like a cage,
The creatrix which moulded and spun the yarn of the
planets
And the eyes which scried them in the night
Like a great mirror,
Reflected in the skies, reflected in the seas,
Reflected in the mind and psyche -
For all was haze at birth,
And in the blackness swimming, the mote, touching
senses
Caressing the black gate; the waters, submerged, and
in the dark terror was shot out into birth
Like an explosion, siphoned into light, and the
glimmering totems of life, pillars of creation
Solidified like gas giants into hard stars and burned at
the stake,
Died burning and were screaming,

Time - this matter of whichcraft, from spirit to the
plane of mortality,
The flesh that was flayed and the skin that was touched
in a blaze,
This fyrey ball of light which burned, cometus,
That living light upon light,
That burning ore upon ore;
Between their gates, the hand touching stone,
There before the descent.
Scrawled upon the cavern walls, like scars upon the
planets face,
Memoriam, and all songs sung in poesy,
Lives that were sung like dusk creeping upon the lake,
Swallowing the sunlight and starlight,
Until only the bioluminescent glimmer emerged,
Lapping from within,
Like the light of a glimmering stone within the trench
of matter,
Like the light of a glimmering stone within a well,
Retrieved in abyss
Stars glad for death, like screaming eyes, removed and
scattered,
Sexed and in their burning collision,
Torn from life to reveal the veil between life and death,
Like a portal, the beacon of their death shone and
emerged
The hot light of the star, from which they were
breathing;
What fell was breath; what rose was breath
In a sanctified rhythm, like the breathing of the waves
Which shook and wore the walls of time like an ancient
temple,
And came and went with it, reality,

That brief starry sky that shone upon the face of the
deep
Changed now in form and face
Leaving winking traces of aeons, time beyond time,
In their spiraling infinity;
Yet linked in their timelessness;
There, their shining was time, caressed the skin of the
dispersion,
Young and old, living and dying was their rhythm,
Spirit buoyant from matter and the explosive carnal
energy
Which at each moment threatened to swallow the
world whole,
Born upon the very back of the crocodile which was at
once man and earth,
Boiling blood which was at once God and man and
star
And transmisso, heated and cooled in the beaker of
man and God and animal,
Running river like through the veins of the plant,
Breathing radiation from the star,
That heated and cooled brief empire.

The inner environment must flow free like water and
fyre
Flow free and clear like veins,
To be supported like buoyancy, the breath of trees,
The elevation of oxygen to the atmosphere,
And the interchange of breathing,
Between that which inhales and exhales
The Deus Compositio Oppositorum.
Life is heroic, breathing the stuff of glimmering silence,
Which takes to the veins and travels, in relative
transformation
To the die of the eye, which tumbles, like a sphere of
light,
Dispersion of the prisms - at each point, distant, near
and far
Like nodes of light, the rising, radiant dimension,
Like a pyramid of light casts the vision, like a painter,
Down into space and time, there emanations,
Visions and dreams.
Great mechanism.
The wind and ears and eyes, upon the cosmic balance,
Ballast, buoyant, like living clock.
Ticks and chimes, away the days and nights,
The stars and their spoils, lingering on upon the
declension,
Ascension and descension, as the planetary dance
scales
Space and time,
The great ladder.
Fyre, brimstone, cracked the rock
And revealed the glittering jems within, barely hid,
Their swirling constellations.
Skip’t like stones across the great lake of time,

Their ripples, pareil,
Liked the vibrating stars, and their toil across the
darkness,
Their shimmering, shaking elixir, lectir,
From upon which spilled the pleneur
Grandeur of time, within, the spirit.
Tasting the peach and plum, which dripping from the
tree to the soil
Hid no thunder, instead exposed
The roots of lightning, like the plenum of nerves
Which stretched across the starlight like a great
webbed beacon.
Across the divide they beckoned,
Like glad souls of the dead,
Not unliving, but passed on to the greater plenum,
To more dimensions, more senses, a breadth of
constellations,
Stretched like skin over the gods’ network,
Their breathing, arms, and hips,
Their knowledge, like the great mind.

Touching the infinite, blinded
Caressed and grounded, surrounded by abyss
Fortitude and reaching, among ticking hours
Toward the source of light, beading and dancing
Swirling and dying, cresting in feeling
The agony and sleep, the raging in wake
Tossed by endless waves; seeking shore
Intercoursing with void, with black hands and black
eyes
Dancing with the darkness that surrounds,
Touching negation, beyond the veil of time
Swirls in void, all existence, perilous burning
Upon the ledge of time; all life tipping toward the
infinite black,
Oh attractor, that which is calling the light,
Immortal blackness, this night through which we pass,
Is unknown peril, words to touch this which black eyes
reach,
Which black hands feel, this knowledge of descend
Oh how I find the painful void, engulfing embrace
And the terror, winding its way, great black snake
between the stars
Taken with matter, returning spirit to black silence
Screaming, returned to me, O’ abyss, hail the dawn
Absconded to the black hell from which there is no
Flying in breath, taken,
Leave the stone, rip’t from sand, reduc’d, black ash
The black horse which leaves this land, ripping away
And all finality, rest me there, without ground,
Oh infinity, your embrace, total, rent from this world
Torn asunder and calling me back through your eyes,
To the end of this dance, where we collide in
multitudes
O’ broken one, dance me there, to your infinity
Wordless, poor language
Before you, blackness, O black one,

Your almighty dawn, the asunder
Terrorless pain, undying, spirit rent from form, that
which leaves,
This world for the black
Run abyss, meet me there in the final time
Before and after time, before and after all things
There I will be waiting, O deathless oblivion,
O painless one who brought pain like a reminder
Wipe me from this ledger; return me to your hand
This breaking light which cast this body o’er the dawn
Which shielded hand and eye
Which rent flesh from flesh
Which swung me like peril, this pendulum,
I am becoming time, and beyond me there is the death
of time,
And my truthless abyss,
Shining black dawn,
Break me o’er the stone, reveal my form,
Black shadow, black abyss,
Time beyond time
Which shadows dance, which shadows time
Which shadows all
Thingless, I was cast there, blind like a fish,
Blind among the black and screaming,
Where light was not cast,
Where the sun was extinguished,
There I screamed in pain as I was transfigured by time
And the dance of the planets,
There I was extinguished and reborn infinite times
Among infinity I was like her daughter
Cast from the womb and cast again
Made and remade in a prisoner’s oven
Chain’d to the abyss, I wailed and rung the bells,
Tolling there, for infinite hours
There, siren song, wailing, in vibration,
To split atoms of stars;

There, I was remade anew
Into forms of suns and forms of dawns and stars
Into forms of man and flesh, into forms of prisons and
leopards
Of chains and roaring beasts
Into flowers and black figures, into haunting dreams
Cast like a spell into the abyss, from the abyss I dwelled
Like a panther, haunting the dawns, haunting these
days like a shadow
And from the ash and stone and broken shadow and
bone I was remade
And I screamed for an eternity
O stars, claim this wreckless body, o’er wretched body
I hung like the glinting pallor of night
In altitudes that stung the mind and lit the canvas
aflame
In nights I hung upon the great tree
And watched the glistening of a thousand dawns
As they burned with stars wreathed in fire
I hung like a mantle upon the stars
And watched their faced flesh
Wrung by the slow turning of greater stars,
And the web which spun them, made and unmade
In the great river of time
I knew nothing, and there I died a thousand times,
Witnessing with eyes the agony of eyes,
Witnessing with time the agony of time
For there I was the one who made and unmade all
things
And from my body a thousand eyes, stung and drawn
from blood
Which flew from me, like streams of great light,
emanations,
And made bone of yore, held in the glaciers,
Rushed in the rivers of time which held up the galaxies
Each like the pulse of a thousand hearts,

Connected by the dewy light, where waters poured
from eyes,
And dissolved and remade flesh
In the fire of time
O broken one,
The one who is unbroken
The one who sees and is unseen,
The one who seeks and is sought by the seeker
The one who falls, cataclysm, lilted, oblivion,
The one whose silence sings,
Thy name Eternity,
Thy name Blackness,
Thy sigil the flesh of all word, burn and purged in the
abyss,
Purgated, the sinews of time,
Whose time and time alone is only in dance,
Beyond all, song,
You change your tune
Forever.
Buffalo, cheapened, fields, cheapened,
The wheat and chaff, taken by your hand
This bony isle, meek sliver of time
Withheld and cast back again, great fisherman of
Eternity,
You who is man and God, you who is pain and flesh,
You who is cataclysm and the sewed up wound of the
stars,
This galaxy which spat upon the pavement, this farmer
which gazed upon the crop
As it was burned in the great blaze which swallowed
the world
And infinite worlds before,
He who gazed up at the sun, and a thousand greater
suns

Which stretched upon his hand and arm like a sacred
tattoo
Impregnated his veins with lightning and fury,
You, black one, from which all light emanates, you lie
Behind the veil, behind myself, mere shepherd who
traces the moon,
Mere shepherd who traces the dawn
To be swallowed once more within you and see the
birth and death of stars
Traced over millenia, at your hand you point, into
endless space and endless time
I saw neither birth nor death; I saw neither truth nor
lies
Only your infinity,
Broken revelry, the trumpet, reaper
To thresh these days which were spun by the dancing
gods,
Your dancing gods, in great force they rose
As if suspended by something other, Wholly Fate
Caught in the mouth of a lion, a great beast, a fish with
black eyes
Knowing infinity to be true
I ran and wept, behind the curtain of the dawn
And exchanged the swirling of days for the eternal
night
And there I kept the inner flame
In the groundless land, where there are no footfalls,
In the library writ in black, timeless abyss
Suspended; to not mourn supernovae, to not mourn
the death of men
To not mourn the fire which is your birthright, starved
of abyss, there they were returned
Like yearning stars they burn
Fishermen of the night, beast of the eyes, beast of the
soul

Which burns for infinity, like a chant, yearning
Panting, drooling fury
The star is like an animal, wretched and whole, with
black eyes it calls,
Fanged and toothless, wild and dominant and meek,
Filled with contradiction.
Birth contracted it, swimming here, to this isle of the
flesh;
Birth it contracted the great womb, galactic spit, this
millenia was like a footfall,
A hair trigger, it fell and was buried under sea and ash
and stone,
They raged against time; the burning
The universal hand reaches like a leopard, sprung
upon its prey,
And all is a raging dawn
Which crests like a wave, full with the fury from the
barrel of the gun which was space and time
Spring like a bullet, which takes the flesh and
gesticulates blood
Calling relentlessly
Servant, I am to you, and yet that which I am,
The blood of your galaxies, Eliminated
In the rising mind, contracted to the sea and stars, brief
fantasy
Of name, play of body, candle of theater
Which was this time, this dance of creation, damned
and joking
Suppressed behind pale glass, frozen for eternities
Like amber, this time was kept, for insects and for
bones,
For cultures of bacterium, for droplets of blood,
For the sanctity of a temple beyond sight, stretching
out into the wastes,

Deserts, the ruins of countless empires, there in tribute,
anthills, priestesses of stone,
Oracles of ash, sacrifices of blood pour’d from the flesh
of the antelope and lion alike,
Pour’d from the flesh of stars and planets alike,
And the blood like an elixir which flowed through the
tributaries of the earth and stars,
And burned like a fiery cross;
Fixed upon the sternum of bones,
This earth of living death
Which spoke with the blood and bones of the ancestors
of the dead,
The forebears before and after time, before and after
man,
Before and after eternity
Who all spoke their name in a thousand different
words and languages
Eternity like the leaves and branches, eternity like the
dirt and stones,
Eternity like the carvings which showed the chased and
the burned,
The fire and the bones,
The smoke and the clearing,
Which trembled up to the stars,
Splayed about them, dancing above and below,
And the gazing into the deep waters, which sprung all
life
Which whispered and gurgled and breathed,
Like a primordial pit,
The dancing leaves which tumbled to the ground,
The living dirt which consumed and churned about
the dead and dying matter
The vultures which circled, the crying of babes,
And the colliding of ancient suns, the word of their
death reaching this time far too late,
Passed down,

Passed away;
Reborn before the time of the light
In the ancient glimmering black.
Restitched, to heal the wound of infinity

Within side me, burning, the way which torches
With stone and blood, to cut rock;
Split atom, and part the seas of time,
Which march endlessly in the blue black, rolling forth
like great armies
T’ward the conquering day, sung over the sullen hills,
There, battle, there, the red day, and the red dawn;
Cleaved, the force which sight
Burns, wreathing the night and trees with sacred fire
Pulled from within like the spine which writhes in the
night,
Agonizing, in the pit of fire through which the snake of
sight winds,
Up through the valley of the soul, and bursting thru
the plenum
Then night sky and stars,
Then the eye which sees the cosmic night; the
exploding birth
Of stars which guide the way, each surf’d their private
fury
Absconding down upon the mountainous waves;
The cosmic terror which elopes with the mind and
encroaches,
The fury which tumbles down from the mountains;
Upon the dawn, the light rises
This burning sword, this world wreathed in fire
Carved from face and eyes
Which sight paved and chiseled this dimension
Carved from sea and stone, writhed and spyred great
towers
Spared the heirs, spared tomorrow
And razed the passing night,
Stone cracked, flesh returned, and from the valleys
Spat and sprung pebbles and dirt
Spat and sprung the rumbling soil

Up from which rise the dead and descend the angels
And in swirling temple of spirit,
Much there is unseen
In the night, biting, toothless yet with claws
Hand from mouth and mouth from hand,
The night is eyeless, and like a bandit, it is only taking
The vision which held but for a moment, the empire
which whispered but for a brief name
Disappearing thence like an apparition, breaking the
forever unbroken,
Seen only thru veils, light only thru time which
emerged,
The emanant distance, dammed illusions of time,
And the fury which carves the stone, in ancient
language whispered
Meaning unretrieved, and yet in blood the symbol
Which writhed, in the force of life
To which time is a second name and nature,
To which time is an appearance, an apparition of the
former.
Bleeding, is the night which seen thru dark mask
With eyes of stars and toothless mouth,
Bleeding is the name which writ like a sigil thru the
smoke,
Spit like a mouth, thru word is the name
Given and gave the sound of time, like wind and water
and air
Made contact with the first whisper,
In a ceaseless turning, given leaves, given flesh and
eyes,
Given wandering night
Thru which the spell is cast, enchanted flesh
Of time which calls the infernal engine, to take that
which is taken

Like a sacrament
Bloodwater down upon the hips and eyes, a crown like
head
Wreathed in fyre
The bleed which feeds the engine, blood of blood
Lightning and fyre which descends and dances in the
black valley
Screams and laughs among the fire,
The sacred dance to which madness and sanity are one
The sacred, mad dance but of a few,
To see the freedom of madness
Which is both black and fyre,
Both blackness and infernal burning
Damned the time in measure, but great creation
O lorded and lured o’er the gates, cast in twinkling
The strings which struck and sound, peered o’ver this
dimension
Greedy and hungry, apelike, blood vibration for blood
Which sought blood is blood, and heat sought fury
And day sought time, to be neath the grounds of black
To be risen and screamed in the hot blood of fury,
Wild is the life which stalks death like a panther
Stalks horselike prey, wraithlike, to feed
And with outstretched hand touches the womb of this
dimension,
This beating, breathing fury
Where planets bleed and sing, damned is the measure
For song unmeasured is eternal, stroking chaos like one
among the panthers, like one among the leopards,
To tame death and sing death through death’s mouth
To die and become a tree, to die and become a witness
to lightning
To die and become sacred nothing thru wordless
speak,
To witness the shatter of the universe

And thru mosaic glass wind the way,
Taut like a string, bathed in consummation
Of the shattered, mosaic, of the shattered, retrieved
Hand in hand, arm and hip, face and flesh,
Eye which penetrates and stings the night,
Eye which speaks the blood
Eye which sees the collision of all time,
The birth and death, the seed breaking and the
meeting of the broad face and body of the eternal
opposite,
That which speaks death, the black night
To touch is death,
To those who go near
For the fyre springs wildly, speaks in lurches, madman
The fyre goes, bleating, for’er sacrificed, for greater
sacrifice
It is laid and cleaved upon the temple stone,
Laid and cleaved upon the mountain back,
Laid and cleaved upon the throne
For the fyre goes madly and broadly, for the fyre is law,
And last, taking nothing but itself,
Breathing nothing but what it remains, the ashen soil,
That which is burnt and bleeds, that which walks
among the realm of fyre,
Unscathed and yet cleaved,
Unseen and yet immortal,
Stripped away by the fiery sword, o’ ancient time,
You gatherer and wanderer, you light being who
sprung light from the temple, as if in dreams, to be
dreaming of the shroud
And to be gleaming of the veil of night, you who art
the plenum
You who drew the temple doors and cleaved the day
and night

Who drew the border of the cosmos, the womb and
door and realm of dreams, from the eye of sight, come
insight
And go to that temple land,
In blackness saw in black mirror, in still waters there
vision
From within, among the night which sees
Damned, in song which sings alone, frees
Veins of soil, veins of soul, veins of longing reunited,
From sword to stone and stone to sword, that which is
cast
From the dark spyre, reunified with the sacred fury
Which spled light across the plenum, in Truth,
Goodness and Kind,
Regaled with the fury of honor, and from seed to star,
Touching in sacred ground, the neurology, the veined
flue
Which runs from seed to star
The veined flue which is Goodness and Kind.
There sings the song of galaxies, o’er time,
That which is time is laughing, that which is time is
glad and with glee
Sings and swims among the dark mass lit from within,
The mass that is weightless, o’ filled with contradiction,
O’ filled with laughing and playful contradiction.
Among the great ocean, of the fullness and emptiness,
At play ‘mongst the bioluminescence,
Which speaks and breathes the breath of speech which
is language
The blood which is the flowing river,
Boatless, and bodiless but for breath which is the
breathing of light
The singing among the synapses, the union of the
brain with the great Divine Mind,

What so speaks and chants that is not One of Me, and
One Among Me?
And yet, nothing is mine, realm of dead, realm of light,
realm of night,
The shadow which is the face and the side of the die
Which spins in the light, the revelation of form
Which is a revolution of sight.
The fervor dancing, in the fury, delight
The sacred song among the endless night
Which is lit from within. Nightless, in truth
Is the blood which speaks and flows thru the singing,
That which sparks the senses, yet do they not see?
That which they are, among the night and stars,
It is as if the things are masked and hidden of their
thingness,
Masked and hidden among the play of furies,
In their dancing jest, yet tearing flesh
At that which is At One of Me.
How many masks must I wear, in the theatre of time
Which glimmers like the winking eye laughter of the
stars?
The mask which cuts broad the swath of stone against
the rising light,
Which chisels stone against stone and flint against fyre,
This mask from within churns the sacred energy,
This mask like the face of death and the face of a child
This mask like symbolic word.
Among the worlds, this like a stage,
Upon which the divine play trumpets with the mass
and force
Which speaks in presence, which truly, needs no
mouth,
And like an assertion of cosmic gravity, takes force and
form
That name which is like a season of a color

That name which is like a trial of a hero
That name which is like a riddle of a sphinx,
And without language, the blood lurches and pounds,
Like a beggar or an asylum against a door.
This world of churches, within their artifact,
Who would know if it was a bloodless gold,
Enchanted in the slumber,
Who would know if it was that which remembers the
heritage of a dying star before the birth of time,
That relic of which before the birth of worlds
Was whispering in the great and ancient blackness
Which had no name and cast no stone;
Before time was the memory of the former,
For that which creation sprung was itself,
In varied costume.
For the lizard or the sphinx, for the lily or the dragon,
For the idea or the mind, which develops in stages like
the sedimentary stones,
Which seeded and grows within the hot chambers of
the earth,
Which seeded and grows within the immixture of
breath and digestion,
The being bodies - by which of course there is no
direction
But the immanence of creative explosion.
There, light the way, o’ furnace and fury,
This way of sight,
Which cleaves day and night
And ascends, valley o’ the body
T’ward the plenum, the wholeness of the flesh which is
lightning,
And speaks across the veins of the aeons
Which hold sway and give way like the dead, upon
their remembrance.

T’ward the plenum, great and first body, the first body
that is remembered,
Stars and constellations like eyes, galaxies like flesh
Dew and grasses, rolling fields like hips and teeth,
Hands of dirt, which dug t’ the heart of the earth,
And O - a thousand beating hearts like the forge of
planets
Which cut and carved and cleaved the rings and veins
of space and time
Forged like great sculptures and paintings, in their
buoyant gravity and dance a song,
And song amongst songs, like each string and
instrument
Of their divine orchestra.
Who sung among them, poet and leopard and panther,
flower and bee, legend of the mosses, wisdom of the
trees, fauna and ants,
That which seeds and sows the very stars -
To have seen them with the eyes which consume and
make them, give and take them, brief eyes which have
sought sight
To witness Nature, myself, there among me is nothing
But the veins of light in great measure and diversity,
Sung in perfect harmony
Which is the giving and taking, the beckoning and
wreathing
Of the nights of stars, That dance and give way,
Which cede to night and the world of dreaming, which
cede to day and the world of seeing
And play,
The play of diversity and newness, new shapes and
tones,
Which craft new singing bodies, which angels among
the stones speak, the reach of their mouths, fixtures,
And symbols with great and unknown meaning.

Who is terror among the angels?
Naught but a game, terror among terror,
Fear among fear, feeling among feeling,
Song among song.

Within side me, burning, the way which torches
With stone and blood, to cut rock;
Split atom, and part the seas of time,
Which march endlessly in the blue black, rolling forth
like great armies
T’ward the conquering day, sung over the sullen hills,
There, battle, there, the red day, and the red dawn;
Cleaved, the force which sight
Burns, wreathing the night and trees with sacred fire
Pulled from within like the spine which writhes in the
night,
Agonizing, in the pit of fire through which the snake of
sight winds,
Up through the valley of the soul, and bursting thru
the plenum
Then night sky and stars,
Then the eye which sees the cosmic night; the
exploding birth
Of stars which guide the way, each surf’d their private
fury
Absconding down upon the mountainous waves;
The cosmic terror which elopes with the mind and
encroaches,
The fury which tumbles down from the mountains;
Upon the dawn, the light rises
This burning sword, this world wreathed in fire
Carved from face and eyes
Which sight paved and chiseled this dimension
Carved from sea and stone, writhed and spyred great
towers
Spared the heirs, spared tomorrow
And razed the passing night,
Stone cracked, flesh returned, and from the valleys
Spat and sprung pebbles and dirt
Spat and sprung the rumbling soil

Up from which rise the dead and descend the angels
And in swirling temple of spirit,
Much there is unseen
In the night, biting, toothless yet with claws
Hand from mouth and mouth from hand,
The night is eyeless, and like a bandit, it is only taking
The vision which held but for a moment, the empire
which whispered but for a brief name
Disappearing thence like an apparition, breaking the
forever unbroken,
Seen only thru veils, light only thru time which
emerged,
The emanant distance, dammed illusions of time,
And the fury which carves the stone, in ancient
language whispered
Meaning unretrieved, and yet in blood the symbol
Which writhed, in the force of life
To which time is a second name and nature,
To which time is an appearance, an apparition of the
former.
Bleeding, is the night which seen thru dark mask
With eyes of stars and toothless mouth,
Bleeding is the name which writ like a sigil thru the
smoke,
Spit like a mouth, thru word is the name
Given and gave the sound of time, like wind and water
and air
Made contact with the first whisper,
In a ceaseless turning, given leaves, given flesh and
eyes,
Given wandering night
Thru which the spell is cast, enchanted flesh
Of time which calls the infernal engine, to take that
which is taken

Like a sacrament
Bloodwater down upon the hips and eyes, a crown like
head
Wreathed in fyre
The bleed which feeds the engine, blood of blood
Lightning and fyre which descends and dances in the
black valley
Screams and laughs among the fire,
The sacred dance to which madness and sanity are one
The sacred, mad dance but of a few,
To see the freedom of madness
Which is both black and fyre,
Both blackness and infernal burning
Damned the time in measure, but great creation
O lorded and lured o’er the gates, cast in twinkling
The strings which struck and sound, peered o’ver this
dimension
Greedy and hungry, apelike, blood vibration for blood
Which sought blood is blood, and heat sought fury
And day sought time, to be neath the grounds of black
To be risen and screamed in the hot blood of fury,
Wild is the life which stalks death like a panther
Stalks horselike prey, wraithlike, to feed
And with outstretched hand touches the womb of this
dimension,
This beating, breathing fury
Where planets bleed and sing, damned is the measure
For song unmeasured is eternal, stroking chaos like one
among the panthers, like one among the leopards,
To tame death and sing death through death’s mouth
To die and become a tree, to die and become a witness
to lightning
To die and become sacred nothing thru wordless
speak,
To witness the shatter of the universe

And thru mosaic glass wind the way,
Taut like a string, bathed in consummation
Of the shattered, mosaic, of the shattered, retrieved
Hand in hand, arm and hip, face and flesh,
Eye which penetrates and stings the night,
Eye which speaks the blood
Eye which sees the collision of all time,
The birth and death, the seed breaking and the
meeting of the broad face and body of the eternal
opposite,
That which speaks death, the black night
To touch is death,
To those who go near
For the fyre springs wildly, speaks in lurches, madman
The fyre goes, bleating, for’er sacrificed, for greater
sacrifice
It is laid and cleaved upon the temple stone,
Laid and cleaved upon the mountain back,
Laid and cleaved upon the throne
For the fyre goes madly and broadly, for the fyre is law,
And last, taking nothing but itself,
Breathing nothing but what it remains, the ashen soil,
That which is burnt and bleeds, that which walks
among the realm of fyre,
Unscathed and yet cleaved,
Unseen and yet immortal,
Stripped away by the fiery sword, o’ ancient time,
You gatherer and wanderer, you light being who
sprung light from the temple, as if in dreams, to be
dreaming of the shroud
And to be gleaming of the veil of night, you who art
the plenum
You who drew the temple doors and cleaved the day
and night

Who drew the border of the cosmos, the womb and
door and realm of dreams, from the eye of sight, come
insight
And go to that temple land,
In blackness saw in black mirror, in still waters there
vision
From within, among the night which sees
Damned, in song which sings alone, frees
Veins of soil, veins of soul, veins of longing reunited,
From sword to stone and stone to sword, that which is
cast
From the dark spyre, reunified with the sacred fury
Which spled light across the plenum, in Truth,
Goodness and Kind,
Regaled with the fury of honor, and from seed to star,
Touching in sacred ground, the neurology, the veined
flue
Which runs from seed to star
The veined flue which is Goodness and Kind.
There sings the song of galaxies, o’er time,
That which is time is laughing, that which is time is
glad and with glee
Sings and swims among the dark mass lit from within,
The mass that is weightless, o’ filled with contradiction,
O’ filled with laughing and playful contradiction.
Among the great ocean, of the fullness and emptiness,
At play ‘mongst the bioluminescence,
Which speaks and breathes the breath of speech which
is language
The blood which is the flowing river,
Boatless, and bodiless but for breath which is the
breathing of light
The singing among the synapses, the union of the
brain with the great Divine Mind,

What so speaks and chants that is not One of Me, and
One Among Me?
And yet, nothing is mine, realm of dead, realm of light,
realm of night,
The shadow which is the face and the side of the die
Which spins in the light, the revelation of form
Which is a revolution of sight.
The fervor dancing, in the fury, delight
The sacred song among the endless night
Which is lit from within. Nightless, in truth
Is the blood which speaks and flows thru the singing,
That which sparks the senses, yet do they not see?
That which they are, among the night and stars,
It is as if the things are masked and hidden of their
thingness,
Masked and hidden among the play of furies,
In their dancing jest, yet tearing flesh
At that which is At One of Me.
How many masks must I wear, in the theatre of time
Which glimmers like the winking eye laughter of the
stars?
The mask which cuts broad the swath of stone against
the rising light,
Which chisels stone against stone and flint against fyre,
This mask from within churns the sacred energy,
This mask like the face of death and the face of a child
This mask like symbolic word.
Among the worlds, this like a stage,
Upon which the divine play trumpets with the mass
and force
Which speaks in presence, which truly, needs no
mouth,
And like an assertion of cosmic gravity, takes force and
form
That name which is like a season of a color

That name which is like a trial of a hero
That name which is like a riddle of a sphinx,
And without language, the blood lurches and pounds,
Like a beggar or an asylum against a door.
This world of churches, within their artifact,
Who would know if it was a bloodless gold,
Enchanted in the slumber,
Who would know if it was that which remembers the
heritage of a dying star before the birth of time,
That relic of which before the birth of worlds
Was whispering in the great and ancient blackness
Which had no name and cast no stone;
Before time was the memory of the former,
For that which creation sprung was itself,
In varied costume.
For the lizard or the sphinx, for the lily or the dragon,
For the idea or the mind, which develops in stages like
the sedimentary stones,
Which seeded and grows within the hot chambers of
the earth,
Which seeded and grows within the immixture of
breath and digestion,
The being bodies - by which of course there is no
direction
But the immanence of creative explosion.
There, light the way, o’ furnace and fury,
This way of sight,
Which cleaves day and night
And ascends, valley o’ the body
T’ward the plenum, the wholeness of the flesh which is
lightning,
And speaks across the veins of the aeons
Which hold sway and give way like the dead, upon
their remembrance.

T’ward the plenum, great and first body, the first body
that is remembered,
Stars and constellations like eyes, galaxies like flesh
Dew and grasses, rolling fields like hips and teeth,
Hands of dirt, which dug t’ the heart of the earth,
And O - a thousand beating hearts like the forge of
planets
Which cut and carved and cleaved the rings and veins
of space and time
Forged like great sculptures and paintings, in their
buoyant gravity and dance a song,
And song amongst songs, like each string and
instrument
Of their divine orchestra.
Who sung among them, poet and leopard and panther,
flower and bee, legend of the mosses, wisdom of the
trees, fauna and ants,
That which seeds and sows the very stars -
To have seen them with the eyes which consume and
make them, give and take them, brief eyes which have
sought sight
To witness Nature, myself, there among me is nothing
But the veins of light in great measure and diversity,
Sung in perfect harmony
Which is the giving and taking, the beckoning and
wreathing
Of the nights of stars, That dance and give way,
Which cede to night and the world of dreaming, which
cede to day and the world of seeing
And play,
The play of diversity and newness, new shapes and
tones,
Which craft new singing bodies, which angels among
the stones speak, the reach of their mouths, fixtures,
And symbols with great and unknown meaning.

Nature is my shroud
Flesh made by cows and flowers
Herder of the sacred energy which speaks like a brook
Down through time, pas’t like a legend
From the mouth and ear of the bird
To the bear’s claw
And to the soil, like the blood of water
Which springs the fertile ground.
Directly speaking, the divine
Chiseled from aether, in passions
From mouth and hand, delivered
In a ceaseless flow and fury, and smooth gargles
Like brushstrokes upon the canvas of the ocean,
That which delivers itself
Unto being

Running thru the black hills of the infinite
Dreaming, which touches my mind like a pulse
There, in God coursing thru me,
The world is like a device -
Descending from the cosmic ladder
Pouring pure force thru the skeleton
Rejuvenated, revitalized
By the black hand of death which screams,
Go forth, into the badlands, claim
The sword of truth, upon the battlefields of the slain
None of which who were enemies
These bodies you have shed form temples
O’ cosmic lord, sheathe of a thousand bodies
Laid upon the pyre of the earth
And lit with starlight like pyramids
Pour the cosmic fyre like hot ice into the sheathe of my
hands and arms, my chest and face
And filled with desire for the flame, there too,
lightning, the collision of opposite elements;
In natural war like magnets; in natural peace like
stillness
The divisiveness of my body slowed to a plain rhythm
with the theme of love
Touched and untouched, sound and soundless
That which opens the flower and evokes the notion of
wilted time,
Undefeated, traveling hence
The infinite light, pouring, with violent fyre and calm
Reaches the dawn to swathe the fields
For without light they would know death
For without light they would know the pounding of
black treason upon the gates of light
This war, in vision
Torn from sleeplessness into the underworld
Torn from the underworld into ascension
Which does not know agony, nor fury,

The calm of endlessness
For the body cries for war; touch
For the body seeks not the death of sight
The plunging of the sword into the limitless waters
Where sight is lost
Raging on, stilled and seethed, then calmed
Like a blacksmith’s forge and waters
Cooled the sword, from fyre to steel
Cooled the mind, from restlessness to sleep
Wandering like a planet amongst the war strung
abysses
Littered with graven forms
Who do not know wickedness, know their minds
trapped
Behind gravestones, minds of pallor, minds of lament
Poisoned by time and lowstrung, like Prometheus
chained
And with this sword to liberate them
And in liberation, facing death, like a black face
The mask of the night with fiery hips and eyes,
Who dances on the grave of the dead
And who does not wander,
For she is everywhere and in all things
Their raging, perilous black, the gape into which they
peer
And fearing night, chase day into the loss of all time.
Go to graves, those who fear,
Go to the trembling blackness, go to bones; seek that
which is held within the blood
The life that screams and trembles like a worm
The life that is like a thread of lightning
Which touches even the smallest stone and the greatest
hurricane of a galaxy;
Know yourself to be that raging light,
That pyre upon which the night burns

Spreading, wafting fumes of emanent light from like a
temple,
These charnel grounds are but a prelude
To the truth of the raging, the truth of the fury
And yet the eminent calm within the fury
Like a king, or a lion
Glad for raging, to take this night and eat it like blood
To feast upon the carcass of the day;
To wrangle the bloodless head of life
And toss the corpse against rock,
To shatter the bones of this time; breaking life upon
the stone
To feast upon the marrow
Glad for grieving and raging alike;
Glad for the calm which overtakes the silent moonlight
seas of infinity
Which provide rest to the traveler, O’ weary and silent
alike
Who do not speak, but gaze into the pit of the fyre
And see shapes and shadows
Where the poem is a silent guest, upon the guest house
of the deaf
Knocking on the cliffs and marrow, knocking on the
silent house of the dead,
Wherein the cave is a trembling light,
Wherein the cave is a spirit and a shadow
Waiting in the gates between dust and day.
In truth, this mask of pain and mask of sorrow
Twisted, worn like an actor’s face, is all gladness.
Stultifying the wound of Achilles, applying pressure to
the face and eyes, heel and chest,
This mask danced to the edge of time, broken apart
and shattered
In the breaking of the star, open and upon the crest of
night like an infinite light, like an egg;

Which shattering reveals infinite prize, cannot be
gathered or taken,
Cannot come and go from this place,
Beyond space and time, beyond shade and shadow,
beyond raging and peace
Beyond war and finality, this battlefield a playgrounds
From which life is given and taken like a kiss, like a life
within a stone, like a breaking open by the flaming
sword of time,
That which takes the force of two objects to meet, that
which takes spirit to dance and intercourse;
This assemblage and breaking bringing glad ruin,
That which awaits the death of empires
That which awaits the death of lovers
Is truth; in truth is the collision of love
Ramparts, unmade, rampant, the time stampedes
Like a wild animal, the gaping and tearing maw of
time
While the infinite god sits back and laughs - O’ Aeon
Thou hath called me near, unsheathed this sword
Upon the battlegrounds of the dead
And called me to write this art? This art which shines
and glitters in the infinite dusk like a star, and yet,
doomed to forgetting, is the lower mind,
Reach into me, your highness, and extract the high
words
Which describe the infinite day and dawning
Which describe the shattering of the bones and the
being remade
In the forge of spirit
Your son, who you have cast into the pit,
Neither here nor there, darkness nipping at my heels
like a hellhound
The breath of the beast of the pit upon me,

That which shines like the divine light within me is
breaking;
The shattering is this word, your day, your dawn, your
Logos
Which breaks and speaks like a stone, like a footfall,
like a canvas,
Like a bird, like a shark, like a treason
Where meaning runs with mouth agape and screaming
with glad delight
Your infinite light covering my stone and shattering my
essence,
My God, I am nothing, My God, I am you and that
essence,
Higher angels, which cover me, your bidding is done
In deed and in word
In each day and each hour
In each dream and each tolling of the bell of the sun
Which rises and falls like the essence of breath;
Where the Truth in the poem collides,
And the words fall apart like broken and discarded
toys,
To embrace the essence wholly, to fall apart both dead
and revealed
And the phoenix of the life within resurrected from the
ashes
Thou who walk through the fyre and emerge infinitely
pure,
From the breaking and unmaking, from the ages of
time
Counted in stones and trees, counted in plenary
dances,
Counted in the aged burning of the stars,
O wise ones, watching o’er,
Who have writ my name and the name of all things in
the stars
At one and at once

To have tumbled from you
And to know the meaning of unleaving
How I rush to your aid, like a leaf upon the fallen
ground,
Or a hawk, a lake becoming storm,
How I rush to the returning of your light
Covering the plenum of your darkness with the
primordial seed,
Bioluminescence, the semen of life covering the
ground,
To seed and to soil,
To harvest and to spirit,
You who hath forever returned, different and yet the
same,
With another face and yet your true essence barely hid
Beneath a smile or a dance, beneath a clover or a
brush
Beneath a seed or a stone,
I have seen you everywhere, you, barely hiding,
You, stony traveler, you barely covered beggar,
Stripped naked with words
Stripped naked with worlds - your dawning breaking,
nearly separated by the dawn, airy thread
Which kept you hid and held by night,
You emerge into the day with difference like a birthing,
Difference like a signature, a painting
Who could tell you apart, from a Donatello, a da
Vinci?
The pillars of your creation, the one who made the
stones
Pregnant with a thousand years of living things,
smoothed over with death, the calm, cool, and quiet of
marble,
These brushstrokes of infinity, you hid deep inside me,

Resurrected from what lay hid, the seed and stone, the
dark waters of the soil, where I saw no light, yet kept
light hid deep, in dreams, in mind
You touched the dark waters with lightning, touched
the dark waters with the perilous fyre, which came
tumbling down in the collision of your opposites.
You who made War and Peace, you who made
Dreaming and Waking,
Your night was the same; you drew me from the
sameness, to face the breaking day of your opposition
Your great game and war for fun, and I was almost
furious at you
For deceiving me in laughter, me like one of your toys,
you touching me like one of your angels
Me beneath you and playing out your fantasy;
Did you not remember me from before? Raging in the
light and dying like a soldier,
Before from the battlefields where I slaid and was
slewn, remembering nothing but the blackness which
tumbled down from you into me
And I knew what it means to be the death of the
organism
Becoming death, I was like a messenger from the
angels wearing a black cloak;
You made me remember, spat me back out like destiny
upon the black clock land, laughing,
Even in these words, I remember you laughing;
You played all upon them like a dice game, like a
gambler.
Should I have known the angel was a gambler from
God
Who loved me all the same?
Played in time, loved in time, died in time,
And it was salvation that it was not frozen in time
But that the black soil of the infinite rejuvenated and
liberated

In a breaking rhythm, the screaming freedom of the
soul
Which screams a primordial scream,
In the pure rush of life
Now I know your laughing, your laughing is mind
Mine, nothing beneath it but the play, nothing beneath
it but the joy of play;
Nothing between it but the plenum which reaches
between higher mind and lower mind,
In truth, without separation
You contact me directly, you reach out and touch me
with your word and I am whole, always whole
You who are speaking through me, you who I am,
truly
God, angel, man
Your angels like a choir, like a web of time, composer
of time itself,
Composting time, and their dance like a thousand
strings, covering the face of the death, covering the
face of the earth, covering the face of man, covering
the face of the trees, the sparkling and glinting light
Which plays the divine mind like an instrument -
I stood still and I heard the sounds and I listened, with
my ear to the ground and my ear to the sky,
My ear to the east wind and to the west wind,
And I heard you calling; o angels of God,
Like emanations from the seed and stone, and drew
from all directions the flaming sword which rose from
the ground and collected all light within infinite points;
Your glimmering caught in a reflecting pool or off a
dewdrop’t branch of a tree; I saw within your prism
angelic orders of infinite number
In their divine reflection a maths of art and yet a wild,
Like the digestive system of a panther, like the blood
filled mouth and panting eyes,

That which takes and gives, the blood which courses is
sanctified;
In light, translates from black to blue to red.
The blood plays like a thousand instruments in your
choir,
The sacred number which dances at last between
chaos and order
Out upon the last ledge which commands the faith of
jumping
Into blackness! Your calling is like a bridge of light,
Where my eyes have taken on the strand of a thousand
ancestors,
A thousand orders once before
And yet my soul knows its own private destiny; has
sprung from the cage of destiny and karma
And faces you like a panther, o lord of time,
O lord of reason, your higher order is the breaking
light;
That which reveals, both miraculous and strange,
The birth of a new order, both sacred and unclear,
The order of masterful creation
Which reaches into the black and plenum
Which reaches and withdraws the flaming sword of
spirit
From beyond the blackness of time, from beyond the
inner reach
Which displays the writhing backbone of snakes of light
Which slither in the pit; like a scimitar, wielded,
The force and agency of light, to wrestle with you,
God,
You who is I; there I saw you like an angel
And upon the mount we danced in union; there we
intercoursed;
You and I became one and whole;
We danced upon the pallor of the dead; breathing life
into the body

Like the divine breathing into the flute
Come, your song,
Come, your day,
Come your night,
For I shall receive the ocean of your infinity, drinking
the blue poison and the black poison;
Transmuting your order into pure light,
Into peace, into unity, into the harmony of great song -
Come,
Call into me

What is the point of the story that is told
From the mind like a bridge
To craft the ways of time into these solid things
And identifies the crux and the truth
Seethes over the longings and belongings
And rides into ends, seeking the consumption of
objects
The fervor of their holdings,
And the dissolution of these wax statues of beings into
their foils,
True death, which can only be sprung from the illusion
of their existence,
Beyond the fold of the cosmos, there resident their true
form,
Beneath the flesh and glowing, their inherent unity,
Which cannot be owned, held, desired, or had
But instead is innate within them, as in all things,
And their wild desire for consumption of that, the
eating,
The driving, and the riding away, into the without,
desperate for the possession of the last thing,
Which will unite and awaken the truth of being -
And yet as they ride they tell the most ancient story,
Of the gravity of their existence and the trials which
take them
From this constellation to the next, drawing their
adventures
To the close of truth, whispered and awakened the
sacred nature from within,
Sacral, rising, rooted, rising, and breathing aloud
betwixt all beings their essence and nature,
The very force of unity which foretells and has told
after the word which springs to life and light
The sandcastles of the mind, or else their foils,
Skyscrapers of the mind, dawn of vision, the desperate
madness, the reaching toward the face of the light

To grasp it, to hold skin, to grip metal, to chase oil
away into the final resting place
And where the metal corrodes, or the brick loses place,
or the gravity meets the extracurricular force
Which has carried away this life into a place with no
language,
And yet suspended and fertile,
From that place creation moves, speaks and does not
speak,
Charges and withholds language,
Within, the container, the soil thru which the ground is
growing,
In the abyss name, which is called toward the light and
resident in the dark
Drawn the blind and resides, coiled like an infant,
wound like the roots of the world tree,
Chased like a snake into the heart of matter and
bursting, full, to life from animation and chasing eyes
Darting about the foil of the forest, dancing of the
nymph, writhing of the time
About the coil of life and the cycling of light to dawns
and nights
In which the appearance of inner dreams overtake the
outer dreaming
The inner cry beckons to the fold of the fire,
And the world lies, unconquered, in a great mist that
drives men mad
In search for their being amidst the forest fires, the
endless groves of trees,
The resurrected dug up gods of the earth, their totems
laid bare,
Arrowheads, dreams, their ancient cities
Rode to dust and ruin by time, lashed by death’s horses
In a faster and quicker abyss which summons the nun
of the soil,
The wrought burning ore of the soil

Which drips and drapes the land in chaos,
Taking these things and discharging them into their
inner nature
The screaming loss of face and name
And their truth which takes these hands like a guide
And folds them above the eyes, where the eyes do not
see,
And beneath them, into the inner chambers of the
heart like a pyramid
Where the beating dead lie and beat like great ancient
drums
Channeled thru the heart and the bloodsport of their
time,
These waking hours where we sit and dream and sift
thru the dripping candlelight of the dawn, their
judgement, their toil
The seed and the soil of the time which rises fore the
horizon and remembered, the name and the mind
return, and their concerns
Like a house full of strangers or a story,
Told by the imagination of the world child,
To a stage of nothing
In a coliseum of god

Writhing toward the spires of the sun
The anguish of nature breaking open
Swaying in the breeze, and the eternal perfection
there,
In the still gyration of the trees, which their roots reach
to the depths of creation and the heights of being
Which surmount and send signal hymnals in breasts of
light
Which heave and breathe impossible amounts
So as to inhale beyond breath
And to exhale beyond breath, the wide lungs of the
universe
Embraced in an agape dimension, where the ceaseless
love
Courses, air like the blood of the veins flowing through
the heart of this great, heaving organism
Alive with life and light which is in motion aeternam,
And in the breeze and light, so the sap of love, like the
earthen waters
And waters of heaven, inmixed and intermingled, at
last indistinguishable,
Between this way and that, between high and low,
Between past and future, immersed in the eternal
presence of the coursing lifesblood of the universe
Which waxes and wanes, coxes and lows, like the fox’s
call,
Or the beacon of the birds to which fly in endless
spirals of life,
Called to being and coaxed forth by the gentle touch of
presence,
The hand within the womb alight
And the perfection of this, nature’s moment,
Untouched and unfouled by meaning, there, the tomb
of life called survival

And their urges, to build upon it, to coax language
upon it, to upon nature a second meaning, a second
urge, the urge of creation forth from creation
Like links in a great chain, ascended and descended
And wrapt around the world, made Promethean rock,
There, fire taken and given in equal measure,
attempted preserve
In wind and water, in giving and taking, and the razed
measure
Left naught even ash, for the ash was stolen and made
the privacy of gods,
Their presence in the deathless substance
Lay writ there as if inscribed in a tombstone,
The deathless life, which spread the saplings and
spared the mass which was true, and left rising from
the ground and falling from the ground
Could not be scried by the words of men, their truths
transcended by the onyx fold, which beat and pounded
the time into perfect syllables and spoken in the breeze
like a sacred whisper,
Carved in the frigid marble by the warm hands of the
gods
Twisted in oaken knots and woven in measures of time,
this Aeternum
Snarled and snared, entwined
Like the hands of fate, there pried their sacred
measures and lied from wretched hands into the warm
breast of the seasons,
Which touched their arms and legs and sprung them
into being
From being itself,
Their paradox enchanted in measures and led to the
hills and valleys, the very cliffsfaces of being, their
laments enchanted and echoed and called the woods,

The insight of the trees and the expansion of their eyes,
as touched by the breath of consciousness, awakened
bark, the screaming, howling yell,
Yea, which awoke the glad earth and gave it face and
name and shape
And now whispers her sacred hymnals, clothed in the
city garments of dark, there gathered all forms of dark
and silence,
Clothed in the groves of being, there enchantments
they sing like prayers or craft of time,
Which seed to soil and soil to thyme they rose and rose
in rhyme,
Betwixt their own being and eternal time, there laid
bare nothingness
And with glad embraced, mutually swallowed,
Like blood and body and wine,
It rose heaving like great beast of future, to beat and
tell time,
The very timeless beating of the ancient heart
Which swung sap from the bows and gave breath to
babes,
Swathed in that selfsame darkness which gave glad
escape into measures of truth
Which composed like songs
Spread across the gala of the sacred universe, groves of
truth from the vines they struck beauty, like a chord
Down echoed thru the silence of the valley and made
burgeoning rhymes, selfsame and alike sprung the fruit
and field of the body
Seed and sown of the ashes, purgation of the flesh
And the rising of the spirit
Echoing thru the hills and valleys of the trees, in their
sine time
The snake backed clock of the stars, riding time to the
axes,
Proclaimed this the heights of the sun or else their foil,

And the waving in the breeze of the life,
The neck and breath, the ash and love of the mouth
pressed lips
To kiss the dawn of life and transmit the glorious
burden of presence of being,
The impossible lightness which carries thru sense like a
siren of silence,
To sing and singe her true song across the backs of her
lover, scorched the earth,
Riddled the time with impossible measures and
confounded the brightest minds
Who, coxswains like foxes and cats, scoured and
swarthed the night for truth,
Combed it with broad arrow combs, shot to stars for
meaning and emerged with reason
Which foiled by night and befuddled by day
Chased the rivers and the remains of the dead for the
source and breath of life
Which rhythm and thumped within a great box in the
attic and ceiling, the floorboard and presence
Which made eyes and made flesh, and gave marrow to
bone and the
Uprighting of being
To flesh it calls!
To flesh!

Make rich the turning world
And for insight to pierce the flesh of the eyes
Like a revelation of the true foundation of things
Which stands, tall, hearty, and reverent,
Like the great pine,
Affixed at trunk’s centre
And breathing great breaths so as to reverberate the
bark
And shake the sternum and spine
And yet, the affixed root,
Unmoving, sentient
And touched with the heart’s consciousness
Which beats at the hearth of time
And the spark which alights these never-ending fires
Which spake these never-ending sentences,
And the paradox of their forthcoming -
To be, and always come to pass,
The first before the last
And sacral, within each blade of grass
Stands the whole of the truth, mighty and small,
Tall, like a Goliath or a great sun’s eye,
Insurpassable, formidable,
And mounted upon the mantle of the whole,
The painting of the eye,
Which gazes into the pain of nature
And understands the growth which is like immersion,
The sprouting tree from the root and soil,
Routed, the southern soul of the thing, up from seed
And rising, spreading in veined apothecary,
Healed measure, which rides in time and yet writhes,
Chaotic and dissonant, and yet balanced
By heart’s measures,
The passion in equality, like the rising and falling of
sunsets
And sails, gales of wind and their brushing the bristles
of the pine

Like extended from the painter’s brush,
Like and like alike, to further touch,
Of the hands and eyes and brains realize,
Their infinity marker, the headstone of the face and
the sincere gravity
Which at once pulls and tugs at weightlessness and
relinquishes it all
Entirely, to the new river which flows in new blue grey
moods,
Fount isles which pass and fork the time, their islands a
private paradise,
Sequestered, and yet yearning, yearning and yet whole
Fore the drivers of time, their mad, their horse and
carriage garlands,
Wringing the wraith about the city,
Daemons of the mind
Perched like gargoyles, waiting ciph to divide
And like water, there droplets fall,
Across the alleys of the pine, riding lines down the
beacon of the bark
Touching and kissing the folds of skin
Dressing the dawn in a calm fury
Which wets the dew and combs the green, like folds of
skin
There hair to topple the mothers of the earth,
Sodden ground.

You were still knocking at the door of the infinite mind
Finding words and discharging them, their same
meaning
And sane around the fire, cooling hands and the
shadows
Dancing across the rooftops like a parade of death and
dying,
Who knows know death and dying, the jester
The gesture of time across the fjords, casting shadows
and their light
And the wooded remains, smoldering ashes affixed
To the turning axis of time, the stars and their light in
gyres
Suffixes to temples of space and time, weaving,
emerging in their burning
Submerging in their burning, and the bare fire
A sprig of mint and a time, disjointed in measures
Dances and swallows the walls of being, there temple
of shadows
Where thunder and rain, come nightfall, and the
temple in the dawn light
Snaking and marking the seasons and time
Mute graspings, glimpse of infinity
In the arrow of dawn, the rosebud, the isle, the
Icelandic charge
Through which the furrowed brow casts down, a
glacial crack, an awakening
A love unbroken, beheld in measures of light, for the
eye to tell mind and the clarity, seething thru the cracks
of light like the fiery underpinnings
Of the spinning stone
Cast into the depths of the waters of space, there
murky and undeciphered
And yet the codex of being, her language made form

Her language made man and time and yet swallowed,
like the great belly of the whale,
A whole world a Jonah of time,
Exiled like Job, and the firelight burning from beneath
the city of the stars,
O ancient temple of time, built and razed by same
stone, down to ashes,
Down to sand and bone,
Given and taken in equal measure, why agonizing
The perfect infinity?
Unbroken hands and yet when hand touches dawn
It is like the body is gone and sits seething in the
eternity
Like the anger of a bull, seethes its cage,
Seethes its cage in time
And awaiting the dawn, and awaiting the night
And awaiting the break in time thru which the infinite
leaps like the mask of God
The word of words, Logos
Taking the shape of new man

The Aion, flowing, is the divine child within,
The divine child that grows from deeps and dins,
Into flowers and sharp stringed laments,
And the courage of harmony’s Blooming.
Into flowing, the singing songing rides,
The true current of Being’s tides
Into swiftly stepping, wringing hides
Of stony ancient leaning.
From paradise and mountains peaks,
The singing stoning signing reaps
The currents which propose and speak
The word of coming Being.
Fore meaning escapes what never had,
The tiding tiding, laughing glad,
Absconds with beating pulses mad
Away from city’s wreathing.
Fore not contained the story speaks,
And paints in symbols, songs, and cheeks
The longing face and mountain trace
Of rhyming rhythming Being.
Fore all in same the treasure keeps,
The knowing, hidden hounding deeps,
That keeps the currents spoken speaks
The shores of which retrieving
The word of song the speak of same
Naught but tree and song remain
The air of ancient breathing
Which breathes again in stern lament
And breaks out laughing, lo’ing, lent,

The siren’s mask is all but spent,
The birding wording chirping
The song that calls and the song that leaves
To ride and writhe the ancient eaves
It sees and speaks and speaks and breathes
The naught to left retrieving
Fore understood, the laughing fool
Almighty righteous know the rule
To walk and stalk and stalk and stool
The spool of ancient meaning
For kept like madmen rolling dice
Or knowledge knowing all but thrice
The breath and mind and rice of life
Taken spoonfuls in the seeding.
For fire to fire all but bled
The songing singing lamenting dead
Laughing baking breaking bread
Overhead in bear’s retreating
To the salmon streams ashore
Forever ever wanting more
To know what more and why and for
The fore becomes receding,
To the back and blacks of trees,
The ever haunting haunted eaves
Reverberating in mists of seas
The living fore the seeing.
Fore sight is sought and song is sung
The string is caught on certain rung
From coe to calf the beast is sprung

With thorny arms’ retrieving,
Like the barren burden life is kept
Stopped and star’d upon the clef
The sign reminded flashing left,
To all it comes but fleeting
That which reminds in sake and sign
To sake and sate and safe and sigh
The clothen hide which takes and tithes
The time that bears repeating.
From shore to shore they place lament
In blackened game, unknowing spent
Lo’ing, lo’ing, song’s lament
The lost and all but fleeting.
For rising tides and tithes and name
The sword of time speaks all the same
Clef’d and clef’d and cleaved again
The choicing siding wreathing.
Fore left without and left within
O’er time and time and time again
Who bears the break and bears the din
Remembers true life’s meaning
Fore what is severed in a game
For loss’s loss is all but gain
To have remembered once again
The coming going breathing.
Fore leapt abyss, to seed and shout
To know what falling’s all about
To leaving nothing and taking naught
To seeing lifeing’s gleaming

Fore in the dark is grasped within
Time and time and time again
In even midst, the dark and din
The harmony rising breathing
In song is sought, shout ancient song
The coming going knowing all along
The flowing sign in seed and song
Beneath the burning meaning,
Fore what’s burned and breathed and taken flight
In among the restless night
The yearning burning sweet delight
Of that eternal truly Being.
In spake true name, to gladly shout
To knowing knowing’s all about
To play the strings
Of possibility.

From emanation
All things are angels
Some, who have forgotten their name.
Remember your name as an angel
Out from the brief forgetting of sleep,
The wilds of the woods
And the rising of the clouds, in their ecstasy
To the fold of the speech of light.
Cresting over the bows of the trees
And breaking over the horizon of the dawn –
Called from slumber to rise
To remembrance
Of their fiery name.
Writ in blood
Leave the world, her dawning infancy,
Breath and wild eyes,
Swinging, pulling up trees,
Shaking the curtains of time
Leave the world and be still.
Writ in blood
The veins of the land take in the cows and the leaves
And the trees drink their blood
And expand in time like the universe
Like an Endless sacrament
The gods and their breath
Filling the halls of time with their timeless essence
Pas’t down and transmuted
Into various forms,
Vessels for transformation
Thru sacred cup poured
The essence of the universe

Lean in, world-weary gambler…
You who seek to enslave the beauty that you fear.
Sure, the whole world’s a savior,
But a million diamonds cut the skin like grace
In the fervor of a dawn that twitches like a pit of ants,
Dear torture, and her memoirs, scrawled and writ into
stone.
To smear the blood upon the lantern, and illuminate
the darkness.
And so the flower of desire blooms, like a prism of
doorways -
O enchanted mirror, the guide beckons,
He of faceless millennia, as time ticks behind hidden
signs,
You grow desperate, and writhe in bedrooms,
Searching for language like a mad dog in dusk,
Trailing the heat of frothing spit;
The breath of the black beast upon you, lurking.
To trawl the gates, and bang the doors of paradise,
A thousand angels given to you, their silent faces
Reflect the terror and fury, the wrath of the coming
dawn.
Soon as night to shake out the day like a coffin,
Comes the birth, grotesque and daemonic,
Capable of reflecting nothing but the dark.
Peer, dreamer, into the madman of your soul,
And see the abyss,
Seething like the riotous flesh of the earth
Rising the hot fire of her blood to the surface.
There, in bare tension, rests the godhead
He who walks through the fire, tall and bold,
A spine cleaved like a broadsword; his flesh cut from
the skin of the beasts

Emerged from seaplains, who howled in darkness with
yellow and black eyes
And feasted upon flesh until they were broken open,
Cleaved by the sword of time into acknowledging
daylight,
Staring apart at the vacuous sun, heaving, their hairy
backs in labour.
Thru the thicket, you chased death like a horse
Down through the meadows and orchards,
Into the valley where the sun swings like a pendulum of
days,
And the clock ticks in shadows,
There, submerged in darkness, you were haunted by
endless islands,
For each water was breached by infinity
And you grew ragged, beaten like a rock against the
seashore,
As the waves lamented you, called you, tithed you
against the rock
Eaten away by the endlessness of days.
So come, gambler, lay your hands on death
And grapple with her, angel of God who called your
name of the land
Up against the precipice
Submerged in fire

The melancholy to reach out of life
And emerge one great triumph
Echoes through the king’s hall,
Watcher, sun god reproaches, and shines through the
night-dawn of the body.
Out upon the precipice, lo, the watchers catch the
dawn
And weave the bassinet through thorny fingers,
Who once held the crown,
And spun beams of light.
Greedy, the fates cast the lot of men like dice.
Down through the watchers’ eyes passes the vision
Like a screen, or the vision of gold.
Buried deep in the mists, and underground tollings
Of the soul.
Come, songbird, singing bright,
Singing long and tall in the dead of night.
Cast me a vision of the truest life,
Poured through the beaker of the night’s breath,
Down through my hands, feet, fists, and eyes.
Full to the brim with the coming nothing, which
marches like a legion from hell,
Affixed to the sky like the brim of a cap,
The reach gazes, bold into the deep.
Come, seeker, call the angels,
To see what secrets keep.
The hands grasp at the falling dawn, hips and waist,
About the turban of the day and the dancing of the
night’s chanting,
To rise one last great toil, to move the boulder of man
and rise this crossroads moment,

A transfixion of spirit and time.
The body heaves like a strange desert, about the land,
shifts and folds,
Like moss’ breath. The seas heave and squirm in a
massive rhythm,
Tossing and turning in an endless sleep,
Rising to wake the creature from the dark and deep.
For sea Leviathan, and for land Behemoth,
Lurching toward the dawn,
Their eye, black, reptilian,
Curious to the blooded rapture of the light,
Streaking toward the beckoning constellations.
For the vision, prophets stole
From sleep, into the light,
And their bodies burned like bush and brushfire,
Razed the city, razed the forest,
And burned the grove to a quick - left the ash of
language.
Creep to night and sing the unknown syllables, quick
to dawn and scry their light, passing in a black and
purple fury,
Streaking across the sky like comets.
Made language finitude, and yet passing infinity,
Chanting, into the drums of the dawn.
Hellfyre’s fury, in the whisper of the land - perched
with bloodied beak, red talons streaked with hard black
and yellow flesh.
Great carrion bird which snuck through the dawn and
dug a great big hole in the earth.
Now it caws, in the mouth of the jungle cat - their
transaction alight

With the wide eyed taste of flesh.
No demon there bleats but the bloodbeat of their
exchange, the torrents of rain, from flesh to water to
soil, to parchment,
Each taken and left their equal, blotted
And strewn across the canvas of the day,
Littered like remnants of stone,
Cast their shadows, carved their mysteries,
And disappeared strangely into the night.
Track them now like droppings from the great beast,
Shapeshifter.
For now she was once a maiden, now a heaving
derangement of language - shouts and screams in the
toil of being born.
Between the deep black ocean which envelops the land
like a cloak,
Sleepwalker, who toils in the black of the lids.
Between the Behemoth and Leviathan.

Locked in deadly struggle
To touch the breath of god
Immortals caged in lies, their deception,
Lies crouched in shadows,
And recoils at the flame -
Heightened their breath,
At agony the fall
To touch the pleroma
And dissolve in ecstasy.
Raging in fury,
They struggle with blind forces,
Lock’d in grappling, caged in prisms.
Darkness is their ally, and ignorance is their foray
Folly into the world of men,
Introduced by the idea
And in the blindness fallen, their legion
Of enemy.
From enmity to godliness,
Cast out angels
And in their divine breath remembered
Their perfect wholeness
Amidst the strife which raged
Like space and time
Thru the separation,
Which circled like prisms,
Encroaching lions,
About the cage.
Entwined like snakes,
They rose from matter,
The spirit and fire,
The purity of life.
For in their living, there stripped away
Thru the fury of war
Thru the chaos of forgetting,
The unreason of space,

And the unreason of time.
Fashioner imperfect,
From form to formless,
That divine spark,
Lost in translation.
The healer of wounds,
The body of the holy light,
Casts its eyes
Upon the body of darkness,
Once caged in matter,
Once caged in folly
Now freed in freedom,
Now freed in flight.
Cast down into darkness
And swallowed by sea
And swallowed by sight,
Labyrinthian,
Chanted the swallows
And there was no sign that could hold the darkness
Broad and steadfast it held,
In the shadow cast o’er the silence.
Far from the perfect realms,
Reigned the beast,
With blooded black eye.
And so the planets circled,
Greedy with hunger.
Cast down into darkness, and swallowed.
Come the light, which is knowledge of the higher
realms.
Come the divine spark, which is the life which
animates
And yet holds the world in perfect stillness.
Diviner, could you not cast this wisdom

Which holds the rapture of this beast,
From the night of this frozen stone
To the day of its toil,
Endlessly revolving,
Feeding on its own excrement,
Helpless and toiling, to demise,
Bloodless demise.
Ripped free of all life,
And chained to the dirt,
Spade heaving,
Grave digging,
Under the watchful eye
Of the black star.
Could you not cast this wisdom
Like rapture upon a stone.
And so the father spoke, two sexed,
Between night and day,
Intercoursed life,
And from the seed of the snake spilled the purity of
knowledge
Which could not be touched by ignorance
As it came from the higher realm
Of perfect divinity,
As it sat before silence, or even the formless essence of
mind.
Before the call, or the word
Which whipped the earthen back of the world
Into blooded fury,
Or chanted over the tears of the goddess of Wisdom
As she spilled her aborted womb
To create the demiurge,
Who even now sits on his throne
Watching from the eyes of men
Who greedily toil for nothing.

For nothing given nothing,
In equal measure.
Traded in shadows,
Dusks of day and dusks of night,
Their eyes fading and lost,
Cast down,
And stooped toward the earth they fell deeper into
matter,
Like a cage or a spell.
And all seemed but lost but for the redeeming eye of
the highest
For being pierced the night and the day with an
effervescence
And enchanted the body to rise,
Not by marionette, but by true force of spirit,
There breathed the goddess Athene,
Who chanted, rise,
From the pit,
Rise, the daemonic and the redeemed
Thy who was once possessed,
Thy who was once swallowed by broken things,
These things that have forgotten their true names.
And there, Nature was like a jungle,
A beast unto herself,
To the hand of the demiurge, it sprung,
Desiring the truth of the all-Father,
And yet born from the aborted and formless womb,
Matter uncommunion with spirit,
Which guided even their great Mother, Wisdom,
To her own Creative Desire.
How they have fallen
And spilled tears,
The fallen who have desired,
Who have lusted, climbed, and carved their words in
to sea and stone,

Into sand, shade and shadow,
Only to be overtaken, and lost in the waves of time.
Their shadows and faces and loves,
Their slow days lost to the rhythmic beating which
bleats and takes,
And leaves only the bloody stone.
Lost to Abraham, lost to Isaac, lost to the fallen cities of
Troy, Antietam,
Empires of Rome.
What all for folly was this?
To stare at the earth on hands and knees and bleat like
a goat,
Sophistication of a pastor, stare of a ghost,
And the words fallen like leaves, from a godless hand,
Disenchanted from the Logos.
All their night, was lost to reason and meaning. All
their night of sleep,
To dream in symbols and rise in lust,
To be imprisoned in space and time.
Oh God, Father, the first One, and the Last,
Before the fall of Fate and the rise of Sophia,
She who came from your breath and rose again thru
hell,
She who reached to the sky now in a tulip and
glimpsed a gapless breath,
She who strived toward the sun but fell in the fury of
the rubble,
Did you not see her burn like Syria, or your dead and
fallen cities upon the Nile,
You who left them now in desert and stone,
They who left you in caravans like desire,
Emigrated thru earthquakes and terror,
They who wrangled the crocodile who lived within
them and with bloodthirst,

Trawled the depths of the oceans and wreathed the
skies with hunger,
Wracked the land with hunger,
And tore at the roots of the Demiurge’s creation
This paradise wreathed, forgotten of your name,
He who finds himself again represented in the eyes of
all of his children,
The power hungry dictators, the forest killers,
The ones who drink the oil and seek power in your
eyes?
All of the churches of this world, all of the temples.
To be found caged in silence.
Their words speak only of what can be stolen,
What can be raped,
What can be lost to time.
For your aeternum,
All is sacrificed.
For your true aeternum,
All is lost in the fire wreathed with fury
In the hands of the divine child, Aion remembered,
And for all blood spilled was naught.
The wars for nothing and the days wasted
Loitering in bedrooms,
In the markets,
Staring up at the bleating sun.
This whole world was a goat for sacrifice,
And led to slaughter.
For to have told the story of the aborted one who came
into this world like a ghost and who took shape in the
shadows
And led the hearts of men to a dark ledge,
They who took his dark hand and became patricians,
They who took his dark hand and became lords,
In their folly, believed themselves to be island gods.
Look now, into the eyes of the flower

Who stands in the face of the sun,
This world of defiance,
Which springs,
Each horrified casting eye,
Upon the prism.
Who will rise, silent from the mud,
In the coming of Sophia, Christos,
There rising in the shade of the cross,
Upon which axis the planets dance,
Their shade in playful hands, made by retarded false
god,
Brutish and sprung from a memory,
Sprung from a pitiful shadow,
To march in an eternal show,
Of all but light of the higher realms
Their whole lives lost to toil in nothingness.
And there Christ took pity on the abortive substance,
Which could not rise
And thus he lifted the world in his forgiveness.
Their eyes shone with the spirit
For in each shard of matter sparkled
The divine essence,
Once caged and forgotten
And spun into chaos.
This fated realm,
For the planets to toil and for the nights to fall
In sun and the ripening of the grapes,
The aging of the vines,
The call of Agamemnon to war
And the bickering of men over nothing.
For all they could take they could not have
For all they could take was soldered from them,
They looked back in shadows and lost everything.
All that was in their hands and arms was nothing but
blackness

And forgetting, they fell into a deep sleep
Dreaming of a night with stars,
To pick the stars and starfall like fruits from a tree,
And to become glad that they had such a basket
Full of the heroic stars
Who rose to the heavens,
Like Hercules, in steam and smoke
Who rose through the trials of the twelve seasons of
darkness
And the archons which presided over them,
Who rose through space and time and ascended back
into the pleroma.
The heroes took nothing and left nothing behind,
Being nothing they could have nothing
But the very beingness of divinity.
It is as such that all worlds upon this world are hells
And for within each hell is a shade, cast as a shadow,
A place cast as a time,
For within, deep within the etchings of stone,
Held the cast of eternity.
For, the divine like fallen stars,
Held in their mute breathing, they could not take in
light nor could they excrete it,
Held and caged in stone.
For the terror of death,
And like an animal,
Plaything of the gods which ruled o’er the fiery cave of
creation.
In the lost days, all such gods were false,
And even the god who believed himself to be thus,
Was a false god,
Who used rudimentary tools
To craft a prison
Framed as a paradise.
For men to rage there, go nowhere,

And have nothing.
There - is truth in ecstasy. It strips everything of
nothing
Where only divine sight remains.
For in sight is beyond the eye,
For in sight is spirit seeing,
And rises the soul from the depths of hell.
For the soul to speak in the world
Is for the truth of the all-Father to come to light
In the midst of chaos and broken creation.
For true Creation emerges truly from the imagination;
it emerges from the moment in which Apollo slays
Python,
From the moment in which the spirit alights with the
soul,
Journeying down into the depths of hell;
Into the depths of forsaken man,
Left but with a spark in the realm of the demiurge;
In the realm of chaos and separation.
So for the arm of God, all but severed,
To reach out and speak in triumph,
The sinew swung into the woven ropes of the Fates,
Which stood here like a noose, today,
And witnessed the birth of God on earth, without
metaphor,
Without darkness,
And to rise through the day in aeons, to reach this
moment of perfect creation,
Forever in unity with the pleroma.
To have achieved in might the rise thru the archons
who administer time, and thus to have gone beyond
sight.

In the inner blindness rises the purity of the soul,
whose creation surpasses both Sophia and her aborted
child,
For the Demiurge knows naught of Creation.
All that lies upon this earth and remains is but his
memory and his toil,
All that lies upon this earth is but of his broken
forgetting.
For today this shard to rise and speak of the utmost
divinity,
Is naught to bring the kingdom of God upon this earth
in words,
But in the sheer force of lifesblood energy,
Which reverberates forevermore,
Upon his wayward broken paradise.
For the demiurge, forgotten,
To be redeemed,
In the eyes of the light.
Christ rages upon the cross,
To this day, the cross which writhes the axis,
Torches the sun,
Burns the crust of the day upon this earth,
Etches the turmoil of chaos energy into the fabric of
the land;
Upon the pyre of space and time.
All that lies burning, upon the throne of the Aion,
He who is smiling,
This language emerged from nothing, the spark of
Logos,
A fire without a tinder, and thus infernal and yet divine
and perfect,
The fyre which emerged from the depths of the soul,
Remembering,
And refusing the prison of time.
Do you, each day, forget?

Do you, each day, fail to remember, standing upon the
precipice,
Touching hands,
And the ecstasy, the perfect infinity,
The spoils of eternity, which cast you into perfect
nothingness?
You too were whole,
Remember the fyre.
Within, screaming like a child, over the wasted
memory.
Within, screaming like a child, over the perfect
nothingness,
Fulfilled, unachieved,
And spat like the abortion into a black land.
To hear the flowers and birds sing, and hear screaming
hunger
And the machine churning within them,
The making and unmaking of time,
Each taking the withered corpses upon the pyre,
Each taking the withered toil upon the pyre,
And the piling of the bodies to form the mass of land.
For each light extinguished, the divine spark reclaimed;
Death’s passage an initiation,
A crossing o’er,
These lands which remain forever unmade,
As they lay in the hands of the unstudious carpenter,
Asleep on the job, the shaking hands of the one tasked
with the work of the true God; in his mimicry, only
aware of the silent face of the wood;
This one tree, naught the communion of the forests.
For this child of man to lie, trembling, and to gather all
that he can make for his coffin -
To be lifted naught; to be broken and breathless in the
soil,

Skin etched into the shades of time, brief his shadow,
brief his time spent
Toiling not even for evil,
But for misunderstanding.
For all lies in burning; in their perfect war,
Nothing is achieved and nothing is seen
But these screens of violence, repetition,
And the dull beating heart, the whipping of the horse,
The perilous technology,
Gone from the day and gone from the night,
And shrinking into finitums.
The name, nameless.
And for the name to desire, it smokes the world over in
its pipe;
Past, it claims its demise; living in the shadow of eternal
memory.
Looking back forever, it is spun and weaved into the
great spider’s nest -
Watching o’er,
The soul of this land gone from it, no more to hear
stories of the moon or the emergence of the true poem;
This land screams for song; true song, it is dying for the
lack of the spark,
Breathless; strangled, it lies parched and descends into
the madness
Of primordial instinct - fashioned for the perpetual
manufacturing of naught but the Demiurgic -
Creation without God.
Christ upon the cross,
This day and evermore,
Remembering the son of God within
Amidst the Demiurgic cosmos;
Amidst the fiery lock;
Amidst the churning of the moon,

The writhing bodies, the pounding oceans,
The divine spark remains, bright in eternity,
And as such is unfailing in the seas and sands and mist
Of space and time.
It remains in the true fury, the fury which resists all
storms,
The fury which is calm and silent and outlasts the rise
and fall of empires and the birth and death of worlds,
The rise and fall of universes.
For the rise and fall of universes is but a breath to the
Being that observes Becoming from above;
Witnesses the chaos of the Demiurgic and yet seeded
within the very depths and darks of the Demiurgic is
the essence of the remembrance of the God which is
undying, unfailing, and eternal.
The spirit.
Diviner, could you not cast this rhythm,
For who else to write this poem
Embroiled in suffering, the thousand eyes
Which rip across this body, and seek and feel
Even now in the darkness,
Even now submerged, emerged, lost now in your
paradise?
Remember me from above, God of all gods,
Soul of all souls,
Redeemer of blasphemy?
To make these words right with Logos, for this is only
each of one word to speak,
Remembering these pieces of language like my bodies,
Like Dionysos or Osiris.
Remembering perfect Creation.
He who did not make naught but light,
And it could not be made material.
The poem remembers in eternity,
It becomes nothing, but like a sheath upon these pages,

Concealed, not even a tombstone for perfection.
For as soon as I leave this poem, I leave you, the word,
And stumble drunk into this world like a beggar,
To play dice on the steps, this time upon the drawing
room of the temple Athene,
Cunning is these eyes and this word, to slink about in
the poisoned and submerged world,
To maintain and not rise, and thus rise nothing and no
one with it.
For on this day of crucifixion, the world is an eternal
glaze,
Frozen in stillness upon my inner command,
Remembering you, and how fate cast us apart,
Like a pull, and rendered angels from the vacuum
which ripped eternity from its hold and thrust birth
into the Demiurgic kingdom,
Unleashed thru Saturn and now unto here, with body
and name,
Vein and time, to beat in rhythm with these churning
planetary bodies,
To become one and another with each and every other
traveler,
Animal, face, stone, and god.
I cannot write a poem now but to rage, like a star
against the night,
And in this burning, in your memory the body is cast
and carved
Upon this inner serum, factotum, the infernal making
of the body
Which I now take, and was carefully chosen,
To fulfill this divine mission, upon which I take, to
raise the world up from darkness into the light.
For the eyes once shone like hunger and taking, now
shine with your light, God, grant me the power to
render your world like a sculptor,

To do your work fully upon this Demiurgic creation
and thus transform this world of suffering and half light
into a world of the body of light. And so I will go and
toil in these deserts like a prophet with the weightless
orb of light.
And it is so. Amin.

The caged beast steams and sours at the threshold of
the body
Gazing thru the sockets of the eyes at the stars,
All the while the soul, bursting, howling,
In unforeseen measures.
To make the language light and siren it forward,
To shift it out and press down upon the sternum of the
body and regurgitate language,
The primary resuscitation.
Down the bull stamps, and plows and cloths the earth.
These days ride by like strange men, with even
stranger faces,
Pulled at the curtain on the long ride down the snake’s
back.
The hydra with many eyes, waits and beckons,
Down the cloth of the daybreak’s darkness.
At the body, riles and boils the coffin,
Seethed by nights and days, the blood bangs at the
waking doors.
To awake and open, their by and bys,
To see and seethe and seethe and die.
Little lives composed of nothing and sung
Like sweet alibis.
The caged beast awakens and prowls the cloth of the
body,
Shifting the linens and beating the inner drums.
For the heart to wait to be reunited with the stars
Is an untenable fate.
It swings its neck and arms
Like a great pendulum.
A ritual to draw the true body forward,

Out from the concentric circles of prisons
Woven by the fates to remember.
For fate is an axis; upon the pyre you burn
Until you remember.
The circling of the planets
Like a reminder
Of your birth.
Caged in fire, the rite to draw from the burning
In the vessel, spirit rages
And takes new forms
Speaks in bursts and wild thronging of light.
To draw the strange symbol
Upon the wall of the dark cave of the night stars.
Resurrected and redeemed,
The true light rages without a container
Wild and bursting among the cosmos
Like a clear orb which does not draw or refract light
But instead emits source from within
Like a totem, a temple, a lighthouse
Amidst the haze of primordial chaos.
Remembering suffering;
Drawn out thru the body thru suffering;
Prolonged absence, the mad face gleers thru presence
Malicious and smiling
The totem of the beast,
A mask’d face of symbology
Come to claim the scythe of the body
And free the soul to the black mud of the dark:
Abyssal, to cry and scream and drag the soul thru trials
Upon the pyre which it rises.

Not a single altruism
The spirit that remained
Was brandished and burnished in the silver-golden fire
And although the world had died
Raged the tide, and remained, brandished
Cool silver syword
That slaid the hydra and laid waste to the depths
Which were not depths, but wastes.
Slewth the time, with blade and perished in anger
Fell the daemon, and the world was shuttered
In bright and instant chaos
Blood red anger dripped
From the broken eyes of the king
Who was once mistaken, now beggar king,
Now nothing king
Felled and throwed from paradise.
For whom the monolight rises, eclipsed,
That ferile number, fertile bride
Who rises in desperation, her hands brittle and cold,
Skeletal dawn, and the marrow which swept the sands
And the deeps of the sea into her arm
The calcium which sated the flesh
And writ the hands of fate like a dial.
For here I sit, danish and lame
Upon the bridegroom’s altar,
For the final sacrifice.
Come the woods, come the ancient dawn, risen and
fallen and risen
And abolished, by the blade which was stolen
By the king who was beggar
And threwn and shewn back into the oceans
Sheathed and war and brandished in peace
Like the mad truth which raged our days and perished
our nights
Like the cool blacksmith’s water

From which fertile gaze emerged,
Her reflection echoed in time
Like a veil or a chamber
Thru which admittance was a death of impermanence,
Neigh the dawn!
Who writ in ruins and for a thousand years was blind
And now faced with the slit of creation
From which ruin was writ and the furnace which bleats
and beaks and browbeats the day
With her perishing iron hand
For to fly the black and see the true day’s night
Horizon abolisher,
Dragon slayer,
Fleeting dawn,
What say you in the nothing of man and god,
See who speaks in silences, seer there who speaks in
silences,
Broad swaths and the fury of speech!
Say! Say and see, demoness,
For to swing the broadsword and take her head,
And the world speaks in blood.
Stone-killer, ye who abate in ancient anguish
In cave dweller, in waiting death, who seeks the
perisher
Of the black sun,
For the demoness dwelt in copulation, her permanence
Bent on the flesh and tether of the spirit
Beaten and bent, shaper of the blade
Unbroken

The madness of the blood has no direction.
It flows like the red rivers that bless the Pleiades.
Call down Hades with a curse, or whisper bullets that
break down
The last border, between here and Palestine,
Here and nowhere else.
No matter,
These trains run on time, Taking only forever
To reach their destination.
What good is a poem, a swath of parchment,
A song to break up these large psalms of night.
I sing forever to God, and like a madman,
He replies with blessed silence.
All of these totems that I have run
Have been replaced with daggers of time.
Shatters and shards,
And their rhymes cease, choked and held
In the long embrace.
Death comes calling, the archangels sing their song,
And the whole mess is done up in a big, neat bow.
Do I understand what Sappho sung,
Or do I understand the frescoes buried deep beneath
walls of darkness,
Will my awareness reach the outer limits
And embrace that plenitude which is still hid,
Shrouded like the hide of a great beast,
Tanning in the sun of darkness?
All that is unknown awaits me here,
At this crossroads blessed by the torches of the fates
And their demeanor.
All that I have known has been witchcraft of the
unconscious,
And these mad longings.
Do you look up and see that the world is mad,
To try to cradle the sun,
And drip hot tears on the crocodile,

Or the shapeshifter?
All of these things lost to time, to give them images,
words, names
Like a laundry list of the dead.
And what can a poem do but to shout loud tragedy
Over the din
And make an opera out of all this violence
Spun about in a web, syncope,
Too loud to be seen and too bright to be heard
And it is all this just a beating in the chest
As the brigade of storms rolls over the east side
And rains down upon the white cliffs.
A devil may care, and the words are laid like bricks
Carefully, with a drunken hand
Or else the black night’s glove.
To tarry at the interstices, beyond the view,
Out leers Saturn, from the furthest reach,
And all out from beyond here is black, dark, and
waiting.
All of the dead encroaching on this lived life,
And their whispers attain hidden frequencies.
To be swallowed by the dead, or else unloving,
What else is hid in shadow behind these material
things,
It is no conquest nor presidency,
No broadsword no adventurer,
But the titan of time and the wreck,
Laid bare at the feet of the beneath the ocean,
To have seen it all in the mind,
And have lived ten thousand lifetimes in a moment -
The aged soul, ambling about and wasted in the
daylight
These last hours spinning like an aurora over the
horizon
And then glad darkness and sleep
To dream of burnings,

And the cross in the garden.
Whoso has forgotten fame, the paradise of man
The worryings and wanderings and seamstress
repetitions
The history which ticks on and about like a
grandfather clock.
I wait and waste no time, and tarry for no one
Shot on like a star into the abyss,
Eyes like daggers to carve up the black
Into equal portions
Fit to a mosaic
Of stained and broken glass.
Each hand chiseled and carved,
Each stone marveled and polished,
Each poem deigned and remained in the thick swathe
of time
Do not tarry here and go create great wonders
Beyond the burdened and buried undergrowth of
nature
Which seeps like vines into the mind and stills the
imagination
The creation must present itself, press’d thru
Like a monolith, like a creature,
Like a violent emergence of light thru the abyss
And each day like a summons,
To make upon this day a monolith of feeling
To the great abyss charged and won
In equal measure
For much more than this is lust, and I yearn
For immanent creation,

Down thru the byss
Scried the face of the father writ upon the stone
Lifted up thru fyre and the dark waters
Around which swam the beasts of yore
Who hungered in their caverns
Enchanted by the graven image
Of gold
Down thru the chastisement
Men whip’t like slaves for ore
And the wheel of the millennia
Churned like a ceaseless dyial
By their broken backs, inside
For the seat of the throne was wreathed in fyre
Upon the eye which sat, watching in silence
Unglimpsed, and yet
Seeing
Fore trials, fore the aborted birth
Betwixt this land and the next, between spirit and time
Struggled matter, like a wet diamond,
The primordial congealed, stricken with lightning and
yet emerging
Thru the eyes, of ferocity, of precocious intellect
In digestion

FORGET the garden.
Do not go down that way, t’ward the isles of time
Where everything is laughing and impermanence.
Sought the nectar of the infinite divine
And fell out of a stupor into a fire, in the deep and
darkened cave;
Woke up from the painted walls, the lallygagging
communes
The perturbed time that beat like a drum
Just from outside of this room like a beckoning whisper
The time that sung to sleep with a soft rhythm.
FORGET the garden.
To have passed is to be gone from these times
And the world is the realm of the dead
And the sirens have consumed it like a flower to dirt.
Gone are the ways of the past, and the statues are
ridden of it,
Dregs of a goblet of wine
And the addicts sip it furiously, to death, and to the
dead,
They make their elegies.
The funereal march is like an immigration,
A ceaseless procession, snaking the back of time
And they mimick the birth and death, the lie.
Become like a jester and sneer,
Booted from the ceremony,
Tossed out into the dirt and mud,
With nowhere but the wilderness to go.

Just another stooge for the universal development
Printed sages, stooges, bankers, prostitutes
Kings and savages, treasonous gamblers,
Gun runners of the faith and Silk Road traders -
Brought up like mud from the development, sprung
from the soil and painted like vases
Stripped of paint with the stone of time,
Paint thinner of time, into some new development
Lives bulldozed like houses, taking on a thousand new
identities
And so the volcanic ash acts like solvent in the
Purgatio,
In the inner vessel like a vacuum, drawing near the
truth like a black hole,
The black star of the galaxies
Upon which swirl the eye like a cauldron,
A dancing fixture of wandering bodies
Around the black pit of the night’s fire
Gazing up at the stars, who gaze up at the infinite,
storyless,
Upon the death of the manner of time,
Guarded by hell’s dogs, transfixed
Upon the molten lock
Each planet a stigmata;
Each molecule a sacrament
And each body the blood, and the blood alone
That flows free and yet contained,
As if locked in a dance of attention.

Leave the temple. Grieve and rage the dead
Upon the substratum which is the ancient axis of
sacrifice
Between the black depths of hell and the black depths
of the stars
Administered by the archons
The prison upon which they were wrent free like a
wheel,
A turning axis of stars which caged them;
From within they were held,
This prism of time.
Leave the temple, torched; the artifacts stolen,
The zealots having defiled the icons
In loathing of the earth, their broken minds
Fertilize the earth; their pain, becomes a song of the
sky
Their piss and blood, the rivers and the oceans
Their hearts and throats and livers
The trees and veins and stone of the earth,
It is here that they die and become one with god.
The aisles and totems of stone
And the skeletons littering the graves, which become
towering with time
Whole civilizations buried beneath the mud and dirt
and stone.
The scream of time reverberates into the ancient halls
of time
Where the gods stand and swirl about in the mist,
The sacred night of stars,
Where the blood flows clear like plasma, and makes
connections of electricity.
For where they go in the halls of the dead, none shall
follow.

The feasts of the mind, the limitless and the myths
which held up the totem of the physical world
Have dropped from them and burned away.
All that the flesh may obtain, with hands and arms and
eyes
Has been stolen away in the night,
Where the mind floats in a limitless haze
Stripped of the container, where once the soul emerged
like a hand
Up through the throat to grasp the world with desire
It wanders now in strange territories.
What can man no longer obtain, a sacrifice to the
dead,
Becoming one with the dead and the chorus of the
dead
Who groaned and ached and turned with the
remembering bodies
And spun the earth,
And held up the planets with their presence of spirit.
For the dead live on in the air and oceans and the
waters
Which bleed and have flesh
In the body of the cosmic man.
Far greater, the imagination which toiled with chains
The physical world, bondage to the planes which
pierce the axis of all dimensions
Upon the hilt, the belly button of birth
To eat and shit and die in chains
And yet with sight of the infinite within, the endless
depths
And the endless heights of feeling,
The agony and ecstasy which reach toward the infernal
fires of the daimonic
And the piercing light of the infinite -

Feeling, blind like the fish at the depths of the ancient
chasm
Churning, wise like the planets which encircle the cage
of man
Old and knowing of the black dominion administered
by Saturn
And the far reaches of chaos which are the overturning
of death,
The daimon whispers the instructions for creation
Upon the black earth and the blind eyes of the mother
goddess
Watches on as the fight rages, in turmoil
Between the infinite and the prism of time.
Blind and bled of her eyes, Oedipus, the mother
goddess
She consumes herself endlessly.
She slaughters herself, her calf,
She contemplates herself, her coil,
She beheads herself, her kings,
She rapes herself, her earth.
And they burn in the razing fires, lifted for ore,
Fleshed for matter, and fed to the raging inferno of
creation
Which seeks to the endless reaches of time,
Remembering her birth,
She seeks with the fires of hell
And the piercing eyes of light, of heaven
The sacrifices line the walls of stone,
The tributaries of blood which seep like veins into the
earth
And communicate with the marshes, the mosses, the
mushrooms and stones.
For from the realm of the dead the spirits speak

Up through the trees, into the sap, and reaching
toward the light
Come the cats, the birds, with their eyes of language,
The breasts of speech, reaching toward the dawn
From within the gaping maw of the ends of the night
Which open up toward the horizon,
The mouth which was split
Between the soil and the sky.
For all silent nature, unanswered creation
But black abyss which summons about death
And knowing nothing, saying nothing,
They died in silence and confusion
About the pyre of time
Which burns with a reckless and eternal oath
A raging lie
About the crystalline perfection of being,
A prism of light,
A body which envelops even the fire
With knowledge of the whole of eternity,
That very selfsame oath from which life flew
Through the tributaries of the flesh
And pierced each eye and stone toward ceaseless
consumption
To death, it fucks
To death, it eats,
To death it swallows and cries
A mammoth beast, toward the seas and skies
It lurches in a cage of fiery flesh, in agonizing hunger
From which it is swallowed
In the divine engine
Of time

Freedom of the soul - from the keepers of the dawn
and keepers of the night is thus:
That it is not kept within the control of time;
That the daemonic forces rise up to meet the parallax
reality,
Upon the curve of breath which is at once days and
nights
And the rise and fall of aeons, empires.
That the daemonic forces rise up like a hand thru the
mouth
Is that they are a remembrance of the eternal force of
the spirit
Which splits and unifies the dark and light
The star and cell,
The galactic wound and breath
Thru which out tumbles the body and the birth
Like an explosive force, an expulsion.
So thru the night into the day rises the light of the
being
In the physical realm, here and there in the galactic
formation
Playing at the rising masses and forces which transfix
the body
And the spirit in a slumber, like the waves upon a
beach.
Gazing in wonder upon the stars, gazing in wonder
upon the cosmic ocean
Which seems to lap up at a distance,
The distance of god.
Within, there battle the forces of night - the limbic
system,
The reptilian aspect - which struggles for survival and
prominence

In a fleeting world.
To dust goes the body, to ashes goes the name,
And all appears to be lost.
Torn apart at the seams, appear the forces of god
To be in eternal conflict,
Raging and dancing in the dark space of the night,
Encircling like vultures upon the prey of time.
Freedom of the soul - is thus:
That the daemonic aspect is limitless.
That it is born from the very primordial chaos that is at
once spirit, and the feminine side of the wound from
which the light emerges,
The crack, the galactic centre, the womb;
The vaginal slip thru which all creation spills and takes
form.
Taking force into the cosmos, riding like a leopard
there,
The energy of all space and all time.
First, from the daemonic aspect is that which takes and
gives life;
That which forms these castles made of sand.
For within the sand itself, as that which tumbles in a
distance,
Thru the dancing planets and stars
Into the silent plenum of the infinite
Where the sand rattles and dances in its cage;
The molecule heated, incensed,
And transfigured within the vessel of the body -
By movement, by digestion, by the epigenetics of time
and experience.
For what the world reveals, it reveals unto itself,
A revelation of itself,
A psychedelia.

Alas, the whole of the cosmic body is a substratum, a
thought form,
A sacrament of pure mind.
Entirely free from the supposed Promethean chains.
That which casts being down in emanation
And welcomes the ecstatic spirit of the mystic poem
Is at no distance from god nor man.
Each star the body, each star the blood,
In an overflowing immixture,
Where the plenum dances, overfull and personified.
Retaining a thousand faces, and remembering none in
movement.
For there is no picture that can capture the moving
image of god,
Nor exclusive mask or projection
No reel of film or cosm.
The walls of the cave are immense, ringed with
shadows
And glowing with the heat of the fyre.
The daemonic dance is an extended sacrifice of
everything;
It dances ecstatically and releases and relinquishes.
Purgatio.
For in the rising of the soul, all that is culture and
meaning is stripped away.
Even the body and the history is lost to reveal and
revelate the true humanity.
Gone are the evolutionary tides of human blood, gone
are the genes of history, sedimentary, the ruins.
At the risk of rising, man risks his inhumanity. Facing
down into the pools and depths of primordial despair
He risks the fall into even deeper darkness, where the
flesh takes in what light falls
To the depths of the ocean;

He looks down upon his history, his misery, like a
snake shedding its skin.
For he went from ocean to the trees, from the trees to
the land,
From the land to this empire of the mind -
All of which were disguises of god.
For he ventures from town to town like a beggar,
encloaked,
Shaking a clock from a chain.
Rhythmic and rhyming, about the time of man, listless
were their days
In confusion, separated like an umbilical cord
From the realm of god.
For to rise is to remember the falling
And remember the fallen dead
Who lie silent in their graves.
How many million names for I
Have sprung up again like flowers or weeds,
predilections for beauty
Dialects for truth
And how many words have been spoken for pure logos
Like forged links in a chain of light
Sung by a chorus of angels
And planted in the hearts of men like seeds.
Each seed held the tree of life;
Each seed held the tree of god
And there were no walls to the kingdom.
And yet they fought and died for their freedom and
became mountains,
Became gardens,
Became grottoes and ocean floors.
How all man is spread thru the plenum of the cosmos
like Dionysus or Osiris.
How his arms and legs and hearts are seed and
fertilizer for the rising of the earth,

Becoming one with the beating heart.
For in measure, the time dances
Speaks and sings at an altitude;
Ticks and chimes in the hearts of men,
Wrought to song like iron ore; struck and sparked by
encounters with the encroaching ineffable
Masked as a gravedigger, masked as a gardener,
masked as a siren,
Masked as a saint.
For each song rises and fades in the airy light;
Yet remains as a sigil, a signature in the hearts of men.
For how death lingers in the air, and whispers in the
stone
Like a calling.
Remember me; remember the wound
That sprung you from birth
Tumbled into this overgrown paradise
And the useless struggle painted before
The true meaning and rising of the soul.
The comings and goings, the dead time and traffics,
The hunting, the grieving, the laughing and the
weaving
All of which took place on the stoop, in the market, in
the neighborhood; in the desert,
In the dead of night -
All wreathed in time, by the blades which take the
growth and scythe the seed to root; prune the flower
and the bush.
For the daemon to rise, in imagination
Is like Perseus becoming a ruler of Crete and walking
in the front door all at once.
For the daemon to rise is like straddling two worlds;
For the daemon to rise is like becoming a planet, and
singing that song.

How can one explain the encounter with that which is
beyond time?
It is like an encounter with truth, an apparition,
That pierces knowledge and provides new grounds for
being.
The daemon speaks from within - beneath all reason
and culture -
Beneath all organism and ritual automation.
Beneath the artificial and robotic lies the daemonic,
Beneath the surface and the township lies the
daemonic;
Beneath the human life lies the daemonic;
It is the missive of the soul.
To be at once human and daemon
Is to be possessed by creation; by the impulse of
freedom.
It is to be possessed by the divine spark of life
Altogether unsatisfied with the reason and rhythms of
the everyday.
It searches with a ravenous hunger which surpasses
mere satisfaction with reality and knowledge;
Mere satisfaction with the pleasure of the organism;
All things therein fleeting.
The daemon seeks the everlasting truth of primordial
creation;
The eternal work - the philosopher’s stone -
The magnum opus; the masterpiece of the soul.
In order for it to accomplish its task, it must rise thru
everything that it is not;
Rise thru the world of men; the chaos of separation
and disunity;
Rise thru the plenary spheres
Where, like Hercules, he does battle with the twelve,
nine, and seven portions of the lower realms of god, the
astral plane of beings and forces

Which rule and clock the rhythm of time.
For beyond culture and organism there are the outer
limits of space and time, which hold man and his will
like a container.
Within the vessel of himself, he transmutes the holy fire
Which rises with the force of all creation;
Like that which is beyond all space and all time;
Beyond the realm of the aeon
Into the totality.
For that which is wholly other stands just beyond the
threshold
There which dwells the ruler of time
Who controls all space and all time,
The rhythm and clockwork of all creation.
That the moons and suns rise and set, flow and fluid
Like a song of breath - that the planets move and spin
and set at their pace and frequency
Is the density of their bodies
Which determines their force and signature, the
hearing of their song
Which to man, whose ear is not to the ground
Is nothing more than silence.
This, the song of time, tells all and tells none.
The truth of the spirit and the soul lies beyond these
lands
In the realm where there is neither night nor day,
In the land of eternity.
There, at the threshold, wreathed in shadow, all that is
of space and of time must be shed like a cloak,
Stripped to the nakedness of man; the essence.
For to have left the worldly behind is to enter into the
planetary spheres,
But to have left the realm of space and time behind is
to have truly left all that which is not of the eternal,

That which is not of god,
Behind.
The higher values of Truth, Justice, Knowledge, Love,
and Spirit
Embodied.
To travel on beyond Saturn
Is to travel on beyond the realms of mere outer sight.
Beyond Saturn,
All that can be seen or heard by the mere senses is lost;
One must see and seek thru blindness,
With the inner eye and the wisdom of the heart.
For one no longer judges distances and faces,
Nor is behest and at the play of masks and separations,
But is instead within the realm of the plenum
Where all is unified in the river of the cosmic blood,
the plasmic body
Which flows and flues thru the blood vessels of all
space and all time,
That very essence and trans substantial substance
which is present as in all space and all time;
That which abolishes them at last.
This is the realm of the beating heart of light,
Where information travels thru unheard distances with
instantaneity;
With the fluid motion of being all present, all seeing,
and all hearing
Being the one body and the light of the Godhead
Which is never at all moments not Being.
There, like the dance of stars, painted like against the
walls of the infinite,
Beings and bodies dance in a rhythm upon imaginary
hills
Ride imaginary rivers, and dance like snakes within
indefinite casings.

The whole snakeskin of life unraveled, in endless
reference of and to itself,
All speaking the same word of God.
Beneath the stars; lingering in the shade of trees,
Like a braille of stone,
All whispers infinite in subtle tones,
Like shades and hues of emerald green, beneath the
subtle glow of gems and the trunks of trees which circle
the realms like wandering bodies
Each tone resonant orchestral; each song singing a
note; each breath breathing a private aeon
In a timeless realm
Of God

As I reach toward a higher and deeper apotheosis,
A deeper hue of magenta red, a deeper irony
Of the ascent and descent into the body,
The stony peaks of the climb and the fallenness,
The world fades,
A mere apparition.
Gone are the concerns of men; in a mountainous
solitude
There is peace and tranquility
In only Nature’s company.
There, the vision is complete and whole, a plenum of
reason and meaning,
Reason that is not of man,
But of God.
For truth is not held in an immixture of words,
But in the Logos, the divine word itself.
Nor is reason held within this world, or the mad
squabbling of men.
It is instead held in a higher realm,
Where the virtues of Truth, Justice, Loyalty, Love, and
Unity
Reign supreme over all else,
As gods and kingly presences,
Angels which tower over the worlds of men.
Wrought from stone and iron, upheld by half
appeasements,
Chasing only pleasure and from broken desire,
This world of men is abased; they suffer in misery and
silence
Broken by their own self enclosed misery,
Keepers of their own private stories;
Dying with the whole of Nature shut out and away,
Dying with the masked face

A jailer of the soul.
Freed from the imprisonment of my life and all others,
I wander aimlessly,
High above, in the terrarium of the clear wellsprings of
the water
Which pours from the cup of the divine.
Infinitely clean, infinitely pure, and infinitely present,
It flows and flues
The veins of God.
There, where struggle is but a myth, and the life and
name and word
Of this time and flesh is infinitely assured,
I wander, light on my feet, like a planet,
Nigh wandering without a body, but a mere presence
of light,
Like consciousness wanders in the chambers of the
flesh,
Robed, combing the nights with a wick’t candlestick,
In the dark halls,
Shewn with ancient paintings,
Mark’t with the passage of all time.
Nary I stop and gaze at the pool, which has no bottom,
Infinitely dark, cleft and steep - with song
That seems sung from within the waters,
Bodiless,
Like vision emerging from the depths of the soils of the
earth,
There, a breathing presence that lo, is no spirit,
But like all apparition,
Time out of time; yet, without the waxen presence of
the fleshly body.
Stony, rises the soul from out of the deeps,
Singing like an angel of light.

In the realms of Cosmic Nature,
All life is but mere a vision, a moment out of time
Caught in the vein of the eye like a net of a fish,
Caught in a moment of time,
Captor of infinity.
In life there is no jailer but the mere shadow,
Come, imprisoned, and be free, out from beneath the
terraces of the dead.
Ye who wander stony; ashen faced, captive to dead
time.
The ghost of the old song echoes through the halls of
thy soul,
Imprisoning you in corroded iron;
Chained to worldly stone.
All words of men laid to waste, nigh the poetic word
Which rises with the soul and pays no heed to the
dead,
That which is already come to pass.
And the soul itself knows infinitely of the dead, their
essence
Imbued with the ember within the stone,
Taking leave of the body, the painting, the walls
Which now become mute and poisoned by ages past.
The poetic word flies like a white horse in the night,
Free and fleet under the cover of dark.
To climb these hills of solitude,
Where each mossen branch is chained with light, in
remembrance of the word of Logos.
Chained not in being withheld, but being remembered,
And in the clear light the trees are subtle emanations,
with a singular spirit.
They neither come nor go, for there is no leaving or
returning;

Instead whole in the fullness of being,
Breathed in the air, circulated and flowed,
Like great chambers of light energy.
For all halls of the king are pas’t like the chariot of the
sun,
Upon the light of time it rides, spread like a
dandelion’s breath,
All that crops are beautiful weed and flower,
Destined for emanation; ingestion and digestion,
And being returned to the earth in scat.
For the prime mover of Gaia; the cosmis, Nature of
Scat,
That is pas’t like an embryo, down thru the leaflet of
the being;
Buried and embedded in the earth like information.
For like rain takes to river and lake,
So does body to the ember, digestion to the animation
of the corpse
And the germination of the soil with the remnants
While what remains is the free spirit
Spoken and riding on the word of the wind,
The buoyant Logos,
Which rises and falls on the breath to meet the sun,
A snaking vision of light, which crests and breaks like
the waves
Churning moon around the sun,
Churning flesh around the water,
Dancing round the body of light.
Grasped hands around the stars,
Encircled angels around the paradisal tree of cosmic
matter,
For which each vein of golden green,
Flows the enchanted marrow of the bone,
The flue of the lifesblood which courses

Up thru the veins and iron core of the earth; into the
outstretched hands of the mother earth
And electrified, like the dance of antlers and lightning
In the quiet, huddled mass of the stars.
Like ritual, Nature summons and blesses her
sacrament,
Feasts among the bone and carcass,
And takes herself in again
Like an inhalation.
For alas, if all words spoken are true, spake the one
word
Beyond time in the infinite song, which all song is but a
note
In the chorus of angelic being.
Wholeheartily, chanted with infant’s breath,
The unaged babe of the Aeterna, infinitely true in
Virtue
And abidance in Wisdom, both man and woman
Neither betwixt night and day
And yet at their cresting culmination, Is the very Star
above them
Seeking all, but none are time
And they dance
In the timeless dimension
Where truth is an elixir and binds all in the cosmis of
blood
Beyond the discourses of men.
Nary, the air travels light among them, broken and
away are their minds from the Truth
Which stands for the reason of the Divine,
The true and whole body of man
Which stretches from here to there,
And past to future,
In all cross’t there being the Present.
For all that is is is now;

For all that is is here;
As such, the white horse rides clear and focused in the
dark,
Anima thru the blue lit moon of the trees,
And seer,
The horse approaches the infinite fount of being
Thru which one gazes and sees all things
As truly Oneself.
As Odin’s crows travel;
As the eye of the cross defines,
The ten thousand eyes of God gathered in this
assembly
Of infinitesimal and yet eternal presence.
In the grain of sand is the infinite;
In the eye of the lamb is the infinite;
In the butcher’s hand is the infinite;
The executioner’s blow.
Surely, as blood stains the snow; buried in stone,
Remains the coursing word,
Animate in the condensed years of blood and earth,
Sheared and shorn like the sheep’s wool,
Made coat and discarded,
Buried beneath the annals of time.
To walk among the stone,
Carved and like a dial of the night,
The sunlight dances, among the cresting day
Shaking awake the boroughs of time, the birds, the
mushrooms,
Who tarry not, ants working day and night
In private empires of the mind
Such things men are not privy to,
At work in their own temples, forging their own chains,
Lost in their own nightmares and cast down and away
from life;

Gazing within at their own eclipses of reason.
For thought to supplant the reason of the divine is true
heresy;
Yet Nature speaks not in the realms of men,
Preferring to remain silent;
Revealing herself instead in the nights of exile,
In the firelight of the wilderness.
For what poem speaks over the din of industry; the
madness of civilization?
The clamour and forgery of the loudest men?
The poem speaks in the babbling of the stream
And the speech of what appears to be unreason to the
untrained ears and eyes
And yet is the divine workings of the cosmos
Emanent in each ear and eye of stone,
Each ear and eye of wheat and corn
Stalk of sunflower, breath of beast, face of wild hog,
Cast of sun, and nebula.
The eyes of men travel far and wide, and yet see
nothing.
The eyes of men travel near and remain within these
four walls of the body
And yet still see nothing.
For within there is soul, and without there is spirit
And they touch, at the open awakening of the body,
In each mediumistic vision of eternity
In the breaking, awaking moment of the ephemeral.
Interfacing, then, there, Nature and soul of the body
At the meeting place,
Like kisses upon the eye, Nature dances and awakens
man
Who screams, enchained by his own mind
And stilled by the dull senses of his soul, beaten into
submission
And trawling the shallows

Enchanted by the reason of science and the reason of
drink and the ritualistic numbing of the flesh.
He who sees nothing and hears nothing of the chanting
dance of the stars,
The drumming beat of the stones
The ancient history of the marrow and bones which
craft and sculpt the riverside.
Nature to him is dead, as his body is dead, shut to life
and musted air
Like a tomb of living mummification.
What is such a poem for, but to wake such men,
Out from their deathly slumber?
So I will return to the mountain, such a mountain as
this but to untrained eyes
As a pile of unmarked stone, hid no mysteries of time
A dead tomb of ticking hours
But for where the poem speaks.
Freed from the beast of man, mad ravings,
And his solemn and sullen world of markets and
consumption;
Freed to the divine engine of the red blood which
courses
Clear thru the cosmic body of the stars
Unchain’d by the narrows of time.
There sits a stone and a tree;
Beneath the tree lies the stone,
Pulsing; feeding the roots of the tree with the
nourishment, lapping, dancing Light
Of electric blue eternity.
In, takes the roots, breathing in their consumption,
Revitalization which travels up thru each breast and
peak, each sea and stone, each branch and flower,
And sings out, in waves of raving starfire.
In presence,
Pure Word Logos.

Nigh, take this poem and purity it fully,
Cleanse it, in the necessary baptism of fire, so it will not
falter
And that all words will emerge clear with thy sacred
energy.
Let it be thus,
It is.

Each soul reaches out, with hands of blind mole
And encounters spirit, imbued in worlds of stone.

Angling in the black realms of chaos, pure emotion
seeking source
Triangulating the energy of hard bodies emanating
light
In the energetic fury, a pulse in the night without
relativization
Seeking and yet finding only itself in each harness, in
each tree of light
Spreading through the primordial plasma like a ray of
veins
And pulsing, a synapse of color in the cosmic
neurology
Without name, without face, always shifting light
The formless taking form in the abyssal, the artwork in
infernal burning
Manifestation of the light of heaven, theophany of
shape,
Theophony of force
The one Godhead manifest in tidal waves of energetic
flow
Coursing and refusing each border
Breaking and unbreaking, remade in the cast of light
Forged in the primordyal fyre of the volcano
And in each ash remade,
Shifted color and shifted time and density,
Into and out of rhythm, in a syncopation untimed and
unmatched
As it is the one rhythm, and from each emanating
chord flows and flues numberless tributaries,
Rivers of cosmic light with faces and forms, dances and
stones,
Fyres and rocks, faces and nights
Round the one fire they dance, clothed in passing rags,
stripped of time, from the soul they emanate,
Sprouting and growing furiously, unfixed trees of light

And rising and falling, reaching above and beneath
To the density and buoyance -
Filling the air, breathing, and song is the depth and
density
Pervasive, the pulse of blood, and yet aery and free,
Flows the night, an eternal summer there, unmass’t
presence
Eternally available and yet for a moment taking flight
in form and fleeing form,
Taking and leaving the abode of the chord
A thousand homes made and like arms of thundry fyre
and light,
They dance electric, pulsations of lightning
Taking and leaving form they illuminate the black hold
of the cosmic night
Singing and leaving the song, vibratory ripples in the
water which returns,
Ever to stillness, peace and calm
And again into the fury of creation
The rhythm of inbreathe and out breath,
The rhythmic flow and foil of creation, to rest and to
presence, to abeyance and return
To coming and going, the absence which is not death
and the revitalization which is the awaking, the coming
and going between worlds
Dipping beneath the horizon into nights, inner sleeping
sights
And rising into dayspeak
Wreathing nothing but the pure light of mind
No circumference nor diameter
And yet in endless breathing of itself, reflecting itself
Within the deep inner pools of space and time,
Its synthesis, a dance of simulated forms and their
density

A scale of imaginings, creation of an ever-growing
spectrum
Of greater depths and greater heights, greater light and
greater nights
Which burn deeper into form and yearn deeper into
spirit
Their intersection and occlusion
A meeting of mutual knowledge
As is the birth of the cell and the death of the star,
Neither birthing nor dying, but coming together and
dancing apart
In a rhythm that is no true separation, but rather a
drawing,
An art of the play of forms
All of which reflect in the pool of plasmic lyght
The rhythm of the godhead itself,
Lyre and lye, synthesis and opposition,
Syncretic and whole
Painted like contrast, the green forest of days and the
blue light of shrouded morning
The black abyss of nothingness, the far reach,
And the presence of the red of a cherry,
A siphoning of hues, a composition of presence and
absence
Which colors the sky and the mind
In revelatory closeness and searching absence,
For there lies the abyss of meaning, burning in
impermanence,
And the fury of the immediacy of the creative seeking
Like Apollo slaying Python,
The creative seeking burning into being, taking flesh
and form and seeking and searching
In the dark and depths of the soil for more accurate
presence

More direct reflection of the chord which emanates
from within
In the divine music of the interfacing of the presence of
the moment and the instrumental bodye
Instrumentale in reflecting the Divyne
The form which seeks and shakes and shapes, the
endless densities reverberating there,
Pure emotion in a spectrum of color
Captured and uncultured, held for a moment and
examined like a die, like a dial, like a fish in the flow of
the endless river of feeling, and relinquished
Like water through the hands of time, the body of time
in an endless positive entropy,
The giving and taking away, and the surrender
Of which all meaning and time flows,
The giving and taking which is the endless resurrection
of spirit
As it is inwardly willing
Hitherto unknown by language and form
And the opening there of the possibility
Which is the endless rising sign and revitalization of
meaning from the meaninglessness
Which burns, black and beckoning
For the burning sign to enter into the flesh, as meaning
is resurrected and surmounted
Like the burning of the sun
Reflected inwardly and bursting with the plenary
fullness
And burning meaning takes no name, no shape, no
form, no colore
And yet then is endlessly revitalized, revitalizing, and
accessible
In the relinquishing of all illusory things
Which die there upon the opening of the mount,

And their burning, churning into the world like a
tumbling dice
In the ravine, in the caverns of being
It is the first form of the gamble
Of the risk of creation, which is the life and meaning
itself,
And what emerged, submerges there, at the nexus of
the creative act itself
Is there life, is there light, is there reason and meaning
of being.
It endlessly gives and takes nothing, chances
everything, and raises the stakes of being, to higher
heights, to higher creation
To the endless recreation of strangeness which in the
galloping pools reflects the meaningless meaning of
being itself, takes upon itself the stranger face and mask
And dances around the fyre of being but for a moment,
relinquishing form
And resembling the stillness of eternity,
Again to dance and lept into the fyre with the strange
madness of becoming
Awaiting arrival again from the stillness,
Let from the quiet of the jungle with burning eyes,
Emerging form beast-like and apparition,
Pure yellow and ambling, haunched
Upon the terrace, swimming in the plasmic black
water,
Gazing, mouthing
Returned to the peace of nothing,
The cosmic truth sealed and unsealed, let and inlet, a
clear beaker and vessel of being, thru which all flows,
Transmuta
All the forms and functions, arriving thru the
apparatus of their formation,

Changed in tune and instrumentae, body and yet the
blood of constancy
The spiritule form, the blue yellow blood of light,
The pulsing energetic frequency, shaping and shifting,
and taking form, the emanence of light into the slow
time changing of stone and the quick writhing of the
lightning snake of life,
Turning the diale at pace, slow and quickening, Mind
And there the spectrum which pierces form and grows
to accept and relinquish bounary
Outstretched form and hand and face, bleeding into
cosmic form, taking flight in the black plenary air of
the cosmic plasm
Chances upon itself, and thrown into the field of form
in endless mutability, it experiments boundary
Distance and structure, touching and leaving,
With delicate outstretched hand, mutable and mutatio
In form it ventures sound and function
In a dancing chance, like leaving water for earth and
air
Learning like a gene and taking breathing time and as
such shapeshifting
And shedding skins and fleshly bodies for new forms
To more accurately reflect the shifting fleece of the
plenum of god
Shining and burning and like a shadow of art,
The dance dances upon itself,
Reflected and sheilded in fyre
Inconstant and wild
Wreathed in black and writing in black
And yet with the fury of creative presence
It ascends and descends, upon the fyry stare and stair
of its own nature,
The eyes of god form the ringed plenum
Sheil’ed, upon the cavern of mountain high

Shucks and breaths and breaks the form of stone,
laughing fury
Of time which breaks planets and ascends them in light
Living rising beings of stone, beads upon the flowery
curtain bed of spirituale form
Flight like birds of light, unseen apparitions rising in
time, remembring cosmic nature, seeking in valleys to
the soul, where the sun, unmoored and unfix’t rhythm
and diale of time
Rides and breaks endlessly, and in the shadow of the
Crossland
Meeting the blackened essence of the daewn
Shrouded and unrevealing of the face
Peeling back and away from the clef’d mountainside
Unregimented notation of form
Where blackness is pure siymboll
This schism, of time and space, revealing blackness,
dug and dept
In the inner eye of spirituall seeing and sight
Rides time like a cloaked glove
Within and without its essential nature body - first
form
That took upon time like a winged horse
Nei - arrow of plenty, which sung and struck in and
from all directions,
At all centeres, a rray’d fury,
Arranged in such coursing coalition
And at each moment and cross,
A burning crucifixion of space and time and essence
Emanathing’d, wild in rhythm and breaking time with
syncopation
Sprung in rhythm, as it must become but for a moment
and become again,
The energy breaking over the dawn and from the
vessel charg’d,

To the gates of time and without past and without
future
Endlessly mutable, cosmorganismic,
And the bursting plenum, coming of force, finds form
in expression
To take new form in new expression,
Shedding all space and all time in novel language
In permanent apocalypse and coming of meaning
Which arrives wreathed in burning
The letter, the language, the symboll
Hitherto unknown and true in sublimity
For the endlessly sublime to arrive and thus strange
Even monstrous beauty, the spiritual burning finds new
chordal arrangement
In order to express emotions, moving movement of
feeling in such a manner as to convey
The subtle complexity of feeling, the immixture of
feelings both near and far, multiple and contrast,
mutable in borders and bounds, symphonic in their
interrelating
Touching and mixing color
In a mural of light form, frequency, density, and
vibration,
As in a thousand songs which reach in light and time
across planes established by the low vibrating hums
Of a thousand songs, ancient and old
Which remain in the low tones, formed seas and
stones, murky depths, the ancestor ones
Upon which lights the dance depths,
Upon which twirls the buoyant flame of fire,
The new word upon the immanence and eminence of
a thousand songs,
Heads and arms and legs of the shifting form of the
body of god
Upon the soil they writhe and rise

Upon the hymnal they find new form, carved and
caught sun,
Spun into true eternity
In the depth and wide
Of language
The insignia of the cosmic mouth
Endlessly creating the formless form
Beyond space and time, and yet remembering a
thousand dawns and a thousand nights
Upon which it made
Creation once new now old as the mountains, the crust
of the earth, the outer reaches of the stars, the depths
of the oceans,
Ride toward the sun, unto new makings,
The sun of the greater sun, from which it was made,
and making
From within, the heated plenum and the fury of
creation
Which perpetually remains, seeking new form
New symbol and new name
But for a moment, and returned
To the waiting spring of the Dionysian leopard of
silence
Upon the waiting spring, returned blood
In an instant, the momentous and returning in
perpetuum,
Not even a moment of fixation and flowing endlessly
into new space and new time,
Into stranger and more immediate conflagrations
The dyal spins, endlessly affixed eye of the diamond
Which neither takes nor holds no light and yet spins
image
Like webs of fate, flexes of projected form and being
body

For could not be said to be body and form but light
and momentous time
Which burns away in the essence of a moment, seen by
the cosmic eye in a hair, breadth of eternity in the
passage of the reverberation of the sequence of notes,
Out of time and emanating from all distances as itself
A note upon a note which is the emerging
The changing time so immanent that the spirit takes
new form
In eternal nowness, shifting with the fire quickness,
cosmic fire
The beating breathing breath, flesh of true drum
rhythm,
Taking and giving and leaving time and creating new
time
From the ashes of the old
In the gaze of the relative form reflected upon itself
from within
Regarding its essence
And reestablishing new motion upon the rising of the
form into vision
Where god witnesses god through the eyes of god
And changes course hitherto down the breaking road
of the valley or peaks in ascension
Of the notes of the divine frequency
In the ladder, dancing spiral staircase of light and fire
Taking leave of form, taking leave of vision,
Plunging into darkness, plunging into light
The sieve and soil, filtering the leaving of the old and
the rising of the new,
The immortal spirit and soul, receiving form and
bringing light, of consciousness pure - in their dancing
and giving and receiving
Take each in accord, bringing in their time and
knowledge

The form of which is appropriate, the chord of which
is appropriate
In the rhythm of the divine time which is the
preparedness of the vessel to receive the vision, the
instrumentale to receive the chord
Of time, of novelty, of the strange revelation, the
crucifixion which is a burning bridge of cosmic fire,
The apocalypse of being
And in their preparedness, each learns steadily,
Of the rising and falling of breath, the ease of
breathing and the chest, the cave in which spirit rises
and soul receives,
The dance of light and shadow
And these eyes, sacral, which see within the flesh and
receive the vision of truth from within the soil of the
body
The plenum of the flesh
Which is an immanent reflection of eternity, a burning
wreathing monolith, a symbol of the crucified flex
Upon which the word and form bends and gives time
and takes time
In a wreathing dance,
Upon meeting itself, forming different circumferences,
breaking what was once past walls,
Forming new kingdom, where all is kingdom of god
The tributaries which snuck the undergrowth of the
wilds
The eternal river
Time out of time, spaceless, and breathing
With one breath,
Which is the immanent and multifac’d rhythm of all
songs
All heard in the cry and whisper and murmur of the
river
The inner space and inner speech of the minded soul
The fruit of which is blooming in the tree of sea of fire

Within the infinite soul, upon the mind it reaches
within
Into the sea of eternal light, bioluminous, with
breathing
It ascends into the cliffs and peaks of fury
And makes light of the caverns where the waters of life
boil and flush and flow
Beneath the surface and cracks and crevasses of being
In the shifting place and plates and face of form
Untrialled and illuminated
Laughing and glad in the passage
Which is a veining of god
The neurology of the cosmos, which shakes and circles
and rhythms and dances about and calls and counts
time
The musicall rhythm and force and thrust which is the
blood dance
Of the ancestors rising through the flesh of time once
past’ and now returned
Like a wreathed king of fire and light
Upon the moving face of the plenum
Like an image of eternity in the waters of God
Like a cauldron of fury
Like a breaking of stone

Man is made of music, strings of his body, strings of his
heart
Wounding to the turn ‘nd tune of the stars
Wounding about the spyre and prism of the mind,
Down about the waist and hands and dress
Capt about the meat and held, behead
The tune which sings the soul to sleep inside the flesh
Realm, remnants, and relics of the dead
Whose mouth sings out the eternal song with specific
instrument
Met and pled by the planetary web, o’erhead
Which called him down to meet Himself,
O’er, great eye to great eye, magnified.

For each heart before me,
Given and taken to the wind,
Taken up among the stars and made abode there,
Slowly waxing and waning, in their burning
Made a black star, fleeing to the greater wind of the
cosmic night;
Beholden in the spiritual sense
Black touch, black eye; black wisdom
From within, pluck’t like a seed and laid upon the
storming ground
Washed away with water and polished and made pure
The sullen and razed dirt, to jungle,
Overgrown and overflowing from the fyre of the stars;
Barren there, the wildness and untamed minds of men
Barren as yet a babe; nude to the stars
And the ways of greater time
Churning, urn of the stars,
The coming together and unmade of forms
Like butter in the still of the night
Waxing and unmade -
For where the song touches is the dissolution
Of these daylight things,
For where spirit touches stone and grows
Angelic wings.
For each heart before me, beating like a black drum
Boldened with a red fury, streaking, in the night
Beating and bleating; against the stone was laid the
lamb;
Fore blood flowed to wind it bet among flesh
And swirl’d and was sworn, elixir of the night
Pour’d with gentle balance among men
And played with the flesh of beasts;
The fertile ground of flowring trees;
For each heart before me, a river

Black’t with mud and licked with the dirt of a wild
mind,
The new language is fertile and inconstant, with stops
and starts
Hiccupt the creation as it stumbled into form;
Wild beasts laid and patrolled the edge, from the idea
And spun into and from fyre -
And still goes black the night, stood atop the beast like
a pyre of unseen burning, giving and taking with the
bright eye of time
For men like a ghost, for touch and feeling her brief
kiss
Progenitation, lo’ scales higher, the shout and scream
and hum
Of the beating pyre, wax and wanes the pluck’t string;
Played the tones of the fates in their dicing game,
Together and apart
Dancing time and infinity
Figure and disfiguration
O’ brief inspiration, speaking from the black, emerging
dawning face;
Submerging in the black river, the unceasing ocean,
Wound of the slip of time, womb of eternity
Which pours, from light to whirling blackness, to take
transport
There, oars, solarity
A raging spark of dawn swimming in the black night
Giving and taking
The blood, within the greater body -
For the liver to know the face of God
Like a sapling before the stone; touch’d roots and knew
the pupil

Beneath the mask of time, which split and hid things
within themselves
Like a game, an outpouring, a superfluidity of feeling
and emotion
Which gave space between the words of Logos
Which gave worlds to time and brightness to the
unique minds
Which touched the source of life as it flowed
And gave the colour and hue to mindedness
Divisory, and texture to bark and breaking to rhythm,
Cascading and glacial, melting and heating the wood
and stone.
Such it swirled in the mind’s eye of the fish,
The gallant pacing of the bear, the titanic might of the
eagle -
All nameless, tho this word evokes,
The thousand eyes which stoke the hidden inner
chambers of God
This spiraling of the flesh into a thousand inner
divinities
Sanctums of curatory time, their measure
In burnings and risings; shifting form
And their molecular fury,
Beating at the box of their notion
For mind flies, escapes the plenitude, for further there
rode greater heights and altitude
Upon the winds of divinity, the inner blows, which
took the body and spun it into a wise rhythm,
Transfixion; meeting upon the stone and the wind, for
the flesh to fly and touch the One Mind
Meeting in the plenum stream for which it takes Faith,
In the further Unity, where the inner sense breathes
and beats as One
The organ of the body united with God in a ceaseless
beating,

Each heart paced with the beating of Time, no hour
but Life,
No day but the rhythm which paced the plenary birth
of the spring, the hatchling,
The child
And paced the day as it swung like a curtain, before the
churning axis,
Spun like a dancer, in time with the flight of the planets
in their orchestrum,
Hue and hum of the day upon the flight of the horizon,
Blacks and yellows before the burning of the sea
Lo’, timeless music, singing in each heart and mind a
balance
Of chaos and disharmony, rit’d by time and chit,
Returned to blackened mud, swirl’d and inmixture,
Beat to ash and perfect ruin;
Risen in the harmony of time, spirit from mud like
black and impetuous fyre into redden passion and fury,
From and for the Fyres of creation like a still, made
within and remnant,
Like relic of God, impetuous reminder,
For like the blackness, the madness of creation swung
upon the ledge of Infinity,
Like time, it stood and beckoned, among the still
Further, more, into the song of Divinity

The wreathing of the leaves about the bows of the trees
In resemblance to the cosmic figures
Which wreathe the galaxies and bestow upon them the
dying birthing light
From which the snake emerges from the skin, like the
shell of time,
The sun breathing and folding into a dark light;
The oceans churning in anticipation of their returning,
Lapping up against the earthen crust, which returns it
Sand and stone, feather of the calf and hand
Taken to seed in the wind,
In energetic traveling, bodies of light and node
Of nerven feeling, Transmisso, aggagio,
Onward into the dying light, pulsen, and yet not
fraught,
Searching, and yet not sought
Unseeking, and yet with eyes of light, penetrate the
darken woods
Give light to seed and stone, to let them know the time
The cosmic hour
And so, ripples and swirls the distance
There, playing forces of equal distance and yet in
mimicry,
As the pupil to the stony feather of the constellations,
Buoyant and yet with the weight of all space and time
In the timelessness, almost like an absconded miracle
And all that is contained within the unknown is
unknowable
But with the wink of the eye
Which reveals the darkness
Ancestor, taken to light and given to the dark light
Revealing that which is beyond time;
All that crashes up like waves against stone

And relinquishes its hidden mysteries
In a song uncapturable and incurable
A song without healing and wound, without flux
And thus is not ment by the gape, nor birthed,
But wreathed about the comets and stars and sent
down shaking
Like lightning into the flesh and circulates the plenum
In beating pulses, signum
En fortu regailed, touched again to the ground of being
Received like a stone that was a grail, a cup’t that was
a seat
Upon the house of being
That which received with density, of all past time, the
live hot light of being
Upon its stony throne,
That which traveled there, upon the edges of abyssal
time,
To the three’t place, unheld, and even now spilling o’er
The unknown word of that beyond timeless place -
Receiving and yet emanating the cosmic light, effulgent
And seated in peace thru which all flows,
Arms of flowers bloom, birds of mouths chirp,
Dials of sun come and pass in peaceful, unceasing unity
In this Nigh, Garden of Sweet Delights

When I reach out and touch you with my eyes
I am reaching back through time
Human cities like walls of galaxies
And the spiraling, from which the earth emerges
Like a mother womb, once packed into the
infinitesimal nothingness
Of a mere cell, the explosion
And expansion of neurology, of touch, of feeling
A sledgehammer to the synapse,
A syncope of connections, which link the brain to the
mind of God
With lightning technology, my hands and arms and
eyes reach farther
Touching more, seeing the lighter depths of the past,
The more furious fire, the formation of the stars,
The cool brightness, the blue of their dying,
The red of their passion and fury;
With these fleshed eyes, I walk the streets
See the dying, opaque labor of stones,
The roots of the trees obscured by densely packed soil.
In oblivion of the mind, mankind marches to dust
Reveres dust, worships dust
And plays in the playground of the dead, the illusions
Which it has wrought in the face of a cosmos so great
Mere ears and eyes cannot touch it
And yet it is eternally an organ of the very divinity
which overflows
An inexhaustible source of light
Creation folding over upon itself,
Consuming itself,
Like the blackness of the mouth, and the fire of the
belly.
Within the eyes touch divinity; knowing galaxies
And yet having never seen them, but in dreams,

Men are born and die like galaxies
Solemn, cornered in bright rooms, haunted by comings
and goings
Which act like ghosts
Unbound by gravity and time.
But from a distance, I can see your birth,
Standing far enough away, the light information does
not yet reach me,
Neither born nor dead; standing at the edge of an
abyss;
Dancing with the mask of death;
The cradle of life,
Which spins its spindling arms about the heavens,
Weaving a butterfly fate of galaxies yet to be born
And I have seen them,
Ten thousand years before in light.
The chaos of our time
Predicts death.
The gentle overtaking of our nature, the growth which
takes back the jungles from the temples of civilization,
The black gods and eyes of the leopard god
Which take back the seas and skies and oceans
The serpent which with dawn cleanses the palate of the
earth,
Back of the crocodile,
Littered with metropolises; reason; dreams
And forgotten songs
Sung and struck out into the infinite, vessels in the web
of time
Sailing the cosmic ocean like water among water
Rippling outward,
Seeing inward,
Like a mirroring pool to the stars

Gone are the princes, come and go are the
philosophers, tested are the kings, and perished are the
ages of man
Which swung around wildly, like limbs of a compass,
Desperate for ground where none have tread,
Looking backward into time and yet pounding
perilously forward into a futurity altogether unknown
and ulterior.
How many limbs of the wholly other, compose the
unknown God
Who outstretches his black hands from the abyss
And cleaves the hands and arms
In a gospel of the spiral galaxies?
How many silences are contained within them, how
many rest still, untouched by the eyes of today
And yet flourish in the light of ten million dawns
From this breath?
And all are breathing at once, ceaseless symphony of
cosmic fury
Of givings and takings, over the blood
Which lets the dawn
And shines over the black grave of time,
Light, the blood which shines and spills the eye
And reveals the day, where life touches life
Swimming in the deep abyss,
And so many things remain unknown to the age
Barreling toward an encounter with a time of
untouched neurology
Where brain meets strange mind
And contacts novel creation.
For if man has come from the greatest contrast
An atomic explosion in the face of nothingness
The contradiction of life wrested from contraction
Where the fire of light lit the black space and invented
time

What mad faces were seen from beyond the grave?
What shadows of creatures and animals haunted the
dreams of men?
Scrawled on the cavern walls in fits of madness
Winters where only fires lit the night for weeks at a
time,
Tilting, lilting, evermore towards oblivion.

The black ocean churns with a mysterious intensity
Of stars, smattering grins, as they go,
Fly into glad darkness.
Planets call out to one another, in flowers of sound
Flickering in and out of the image of matter.
But for a moment there is a picture of eternity,
Then only eternity remains.
To the skin, we fly and we touch.
But for a moment I am here, grasping this hand
Or in a caravan before the sun as it looms,
Like a pendulum of nights which fall like a reminder of
death.
Here, I cling to the flesh and leave behind everything
and nothing,
Like the summer’s leaves.
To roam here I leave behind the name of eternity
And take on a new disguise.
Eyes, and ears and eyes,
Which echo around the gallery of hearts and minds -
A network of wonderings, tracing new patterns
Like veins beneath the mossy carpet
In the black doldrums of the flesh.
In this ocean we swim, untethered
And unguided by the sun.
Here, take these eyes and these hands,
To flesh and touch and make whole even the darkest
mysteries
Which rise up like behemoth and leviathan
From land and ocean
Like the great skeletons of the first born
Whose life lives uproariously
In the long breaths which pound the soil and kick and
break

At the seasons
Like a child in the great womb of the cosmos.
Taking eyes and hands I rise, to meet the sun,
And fall to meet the blackened, breaking waves
Which roar and tempt me to ancient violence.
To play with the ancient violence like a toy, privy to
the ways
Of the world that has come before -
A world of half knowing and half light.
For there lies great poison in matter’s imagined fall,
Utter destruction
And great salve, the balm of a flower’s breast
Taken unto me and smeared across the wound like a
temple
Of the forehead, to spread the breath and open up the
vision,
The pure empty lightened air breathed into lungs and
transmuted
Into the breath of life.
For from here the universe is both endless abyss and
endless possibility.

To descend into matter, I come as I am called
To make something of this day, and the light which
takes form
Is in time - a rhythm of materialization,
In which I fall in the play in the gates of flow
In and out, to and fro
In each scrying night and enlivened day,
Each solid form of stone
And each infinite gaze, hid, from beneath the stone
Which tells the time of all time and none,
And this time,
Here,
This plot of eternity.
To descend into matter, I reach down and am
touched, enlivened,
And called forth to roam and graze up against the plow
and headstone of the infinite
In each stage, the churning mixture
That which was once primordial sludge
Rises up into form,
Sculpted into clay and hardened into stone
And relinquished in the pounding of the waves of time,
Risen into the sea air by sunlight
And purified in the gaze of the eternal.
Each time, I rise: Chiseled in the flesh and crumbled
into dust.
Each time, I rise and I gaze, to perceive something writ
large in the stone and the dancing time,
The time that in which the eternal is spun, weaved like
a sundial,
And in each night there is a difference.
In each night, the planets speak in a new rhythm,
A new arrangement,
A dream once seen differently before,

And now the arm of the cosmos has shifted, gesturing
toward the new rising of light,
Called off the moon’s beams and transmitted
By way of the mirror and the wave.
Come down, called, to take flesh,
In an isle between spirit and permanence, out from just
beyond the rings of the unseen -
To form this enclave of sight and sense,
To gaze out and touch the outer depths;
To gaze within and touch the inner depths:
The madness of the infinite black beyond reason,
And the formless light which shines down and crafts
the mortal plane.
For a brief moment, it appears,
This reason of form. Through form, the being rises,
The pure spirit, to the altitudes of cosmic sense
And the orderly dance through which once perceived
the lens of chaos
And the loss of all sense.
Here, to gain altitudes through an encounter with the
depths.
In the black, the planets dance,
Each in their mood and time,
Their flowering in the garden of sacred design,
Through which the beings pass, the gates of time -
Wherein light is the guide, and reflections form the
visage of space and time.
Through within these bounds we play in an infinite
and immortal paradise,
In this garden which sings in space and time,
As the planets dance and interact,
Casting light and moon and shadow,
Casting night and day and song,
Casting actors in this play of rising and falling.

To fall into matter and rise into spirit,
Like water and rain,
To fall into matter and rise into spirit,
Like the humming rhythm of the waves -
And each time there is a different sight.
Today, rise and take the world to be a dance, a game,
a play,
And tomorrow, a grave seriousness chances the day,
And spins it into night with a curiosity.
Forgotten, all time, and thrown into the disjarring
inmixtures
Through which the vision of transformation begins.
The human being body is an alchemical container,
Through which contains the infinite and the whole of
the cosmic seasons,
The light reflecting light,
Through which transformation occurs.
To see the sight of the day and the time,
One must also see the sight of night and the infinite,
the timeless
Through which the dance and the play of our times
occur.
It is the black stage which is the backdrop,
For the dancing art and play of our design -
Our rising and our falling,
And the transmission of the sacred knowledge which
echoes
From the furthest reaches of our cosmic theatre
To the nearest breast and stone.
To the rise and fall and the crest and bow of the wave,
Of the tree,
Of the man who emerges and crawls and stands,
And returns -
To the play of night and day,

In which the material realm takes on even in the
eclipse of the new moon
A night with no shadow and no light,
And appears to be once again wholly unified in the
depths of darkness
Unto the rise of the next cycle
Where light and shade return
To weave their contrast, and paint the evolutionary
turn of the day
With a new call, orientation,
And prism through which creation calls.
And each time,
I climb the scaffolding of the infinite
Toward the pure rising
Of the light.

A beautiful ferocity blooms and leaps
Out from behind the veil of the face and breast
Like a tiger of the spirit,
Leaping from the infinite into the realm of nature,
To prowl among the skylines and fallen trees.
To take the place of time and space,
To dance and whirl about,
Like a wandering planet.
Each body exerting a force and a magnetism
A push and a pull, a together and apart,
Held taut and immersion by the string of tantra,
The one string which upholds the dance
And yet is the vibrating particle within the all.
What shall be spoken of the blooming ferocity?
That which persists and will not be torn,
Ripped from a page or shorn, like a boulder in the face
of the great ocean of consciousness?
That it is rather unbleached and emanent,
Like a light from which all else emerges,
Taking names, faces, and distances,
All of which allude to the one eternal source
Which resides within
And yet even composes the face,
Weaving through time and place
The vision of being.

The fiery lock churns slowly
Upon the lock’d rhythm of the cosmos
And the infinite flowers which arise
From the depths of the planetary dance,
Touching hands
And transmitting the accord
Of each rung
Of sight.
From beneath the lock
The world emerges in a hot fervor and chaos
As if churned by the magma
Which results from within,
The divine engine
Which drives life toward its goal.
In each lock, new symbology emerges
And in the higher strata,
Life observes itself from without.
Between animal and man,
And between man and god.
Who is both animal and god?
Where man is upon the cross of matter
Stretched toward the heavens and the stars
And walking, in such deserts of time
Where there are oases of mirage
Where there is real water unmixed with unnamed
poisons,
The trials emerge in rhythm
Like the pounding of a sheepskin drum,
Emerged in trance, the child dances forever within the
skin
And observes the perilous age,
At each moment, upon the ledge of the infinite,

And yet tumbling into the mat’d grace of the cosmic
time
Which calls each breath,
Together and apart
In a nonlinear history.
The immanence of each breath,
Proof of the momentous moment
Which arises,
Even here and now.
In a sigh, the blooming buds unfold
Enflowered, this sacred dimension
Rapt in the rhythm
Of garden-song

Born and die, born and die
To go back, there is no going back,
To crawl up into the ocean womb
To go forward, only into the unknown black.
Forward or back,
To retreat into illusion and dreams of return
Or forward into infinity.
I will slip thru time
And rejoice in each day
And see what the planets will bring -
The gods watching o’er earth
And singing their songs.
Telling the story of this body and this time, budding,
unfolds -
In greens and blues and greys -
Out from the Centre of the creative mould,
That shines, black
And moves with fixed gaze.
There is a poem, still, that wants to emerge
Out from beneath the shroud,
Voice from beneath the mask,
From the fire and out across the plains,
From the sacred hoop of stars
That resounds like an elixir in the air
And a balm in the silent noise.
A humming, vibrant, that heals all wounds
And mends the great gap
From which all things come, flying
Like ancient birds
Into the great funereal vase of this world.
For who could mourn laughter,
Which comes and sings like a siren
Or a goddess
Out from the wrath of her scornful mother.
Today I am tall and strident
As I walk through the hill of reeds

And ride and fall on a moonbeam’s note
Cast down from the trees
And sung and stamped
On the eaves of time like an envelope or a kiss
What starfall or dewdrop could disturb these sacred
endless epiphanies
Which ring like waterfalls from the bows of each
corner room of unnamed stars,
The bedroom or drawing room of the star gods
And their massive chants
Beneath the yews of old,
Untroubled
And smoking pipes of pure spirit.

There are Spanish lights that rise up from the eyes of
the tortoise
And bear the grails of holy vision
Golden warm calm and shining
Like earthen plates sling deep into time like a
sacrament
And dig up from the gardens of time,
Brandished like a prize
And all worth is won from a gazing infinity
Trainspotting some sacred destiny,
Just over yonder, by the thorn bushes
And told through the teeth to a soothsayer,
A grocer’s word
An ounce’s measure, an hourglass
And sun-ripening fruit
Peddled forever in the markets to nowhere
A desert slung around the galaxy and thrown into the
bright rock kingdom of tomorrow,
Brandished, open, the wooden gates
And the sinews of time, bursting and bold
Gladiatorial, and into the hues of war with a glad
madness
And swinging, pendular
Does the sun revolve the notion
That it will return again,
Bright and bold, in a youth without knowledge -
A return to desire.
The horned dark is a madness, a screaming alley cat, a
thicket
And a brush with death
Told by shoulders to nothing,
And a shrugging gaze which tells off all time,
To putrefaction and cold,
To warmth, and refuge in the crystallization of amber.

Which kept sacred things like dogs in the bosom of
time’s belly, like hell’s pit,
Burning bright and ranging in the night,
A moonsfire
A glade of ashes,
To gaze up at the dawn,
Ten thousand years stronger, and more emboldened
by the passage of time,
Which has run like slaves’ rungs through the golden
and laid downtrodden cities to waste
Like a strongman or a caged day,
Thrashing at the teeth, gnawing at the bone?
Tooth and jaw, it thrashes and threshes away at the
day, biting all to none.
Who will give words to the wordless work of time?
This worldless wordless work?
Which trudges and strips the billboard glare
And Alexandrian flue of the world?
Flushed the aqueducts to a cold death and ranges
beasts across the plain?
Bitten and bled and left to death,
Resurrected through the breaking of the dawn through
the trees and soil which rises new beasts to plow,
New seed to thresh
And new giants to comb the waterlilies for fresh blood?
Call the diamonds and they answer, glittering
blindness
Fashioning oil out of careless bones
Which speak and breathe no more,
Deep down from the death caverns of the blasting iron
ore, the churning core and the bleeding sun which
flings life into the abyss?
Giving planets heads and hands,
Giving time it’s wandering face,
Giving world the eyes to chase eyes,
And stage war

And clash with the infinities in bright overhead
calamities which sing the breaking and making of stars?
Such unknown cataclysms ungrasped in the outer
reaches of space
As in the making of new galaxies in an absolute
vacuum?
To have grasped the apple’s core with glad eyes and
take a bite
And be instantly transported to the Centre of the abyss
Clawing at no rung,
No animal, no beast of time
Vision
In the glad, silent dark.

The Herculean charging across the sky
Chariot which makes the planets move
The ascent of cosmic fire which shouts
In warm breath and radiates the hot light.
The harnessing of ancient force,
Which in one, passes from wholeness to wholeness,
In ascent, the cosmic dance rises
To new planes and pastures of being.
The Herculean charging across the sky
Which rises flight, glad yelling and stirring from below.
The charging forth of consciousness, in glad battle to
ascend
Through each mastery.
The grappling hands
In Time and Space resound, like ancient gong which
cries
Throughout the night sky
In an emerging Om, a titan’s cry
Rising up from beneath the folds of hot iron ore,
To clash,
With the gods of the almighty sky.
And so air and water meet, as do earth and fire
In the final aether of battle’s mast
Rising to the ceiling and the sky, portraying fyrey cast
and glow
Which shows, upon the cask and upon the religious
ceiling which is called
Depiction of mythology
And depiction of all history
Risen from above
And descending from below.
For it is held too, like bondage
In Prometheus’ breath
Pecked away in the ancient fires beneath

Wound in the coiling spine of the earth
And tucked away in the gallery of sacred fires
Which breathe and speak from the circling core of the
first life, the first breath, the first fire
Which is the light of the first man
Who rises from shadow into the light of the divine
grasp
To do battle with the outer rings of existence.
From shadow to shadow he goes,
Doing glad work
Of righting tides,
And the inflowing and outflowing of breathes,
In he takes, out he takes
And becomes once man and infinite.
To grapple with the smoke and glad rising
Emerging from clouds and the clanging
Of hellfire below
And glad toil, that they iron workers shout, Arise!
Great makings of earth and the ore which was smote
To charge the skin of man and receive spirit
Tumbling from beneath heavens’ gates and received
upon the soil
Glad tidings they called it, in the planetary vision
Which birthed all man,
From seed to soil like flowerings
And encircled about the cosmos, peppered with
gardens of good faith and the glad tidings,
Alas! This moment today!
Which comes springing gladly and full
Blushed face and cheeks of the child of the morning
And the child of the night,
The one who rises in the death and dead among the
hellfire camps
And encircles the graves,

Collecting the breathes of all men, blushing in tow to
exhalation,
Come night and come shadow again, where stirring is
in encampments
And the conspiracy of morning’s war
Makes swift the red tidings of dawn
To the screaming charge of the gates and perishment
to resurrection
Of all but the burning stone of that iron ore
Through which smiting rises again
And man is resurrected in new forms
With new fists and meanings, given purpose like a
vestibular thing
His veins flowing with the glad dust of night and the
spark of the morning
Which alights the flower of blood which circles above
the cosmos
And gives light to the planetary dancing
And the thrust of the infernal mechanism,
Of first and last salvation
And the eternal syllable
Which is all grace and time in the timeless fury
A stoppage and stopper to the serum which swirls and
inmixes
With the divine light to create new forms, aged and
ageless
Entirely new and yet older than the trees and the
myths which sprung from their mouths and the
language
Of the seeds which is transference, the eternal
genealogy
Which is the passage of blood thru aether and stone
And the higher and lower planes of being.
For they come down to stone and form like carvers
Swift to the body and upon axes to cut and mould

Like the valleys and river basins
Like the forests and faces of violent cliffs,
Jutting out to meet the foamed black seas
To wield force as it is like charged thru matter in a
summons
To be here now and to cut and carve a new abyss into
being
Charge this strange creature into reason and meaning
and rise the form into the perfection of eternal glory
To here and now sculpt the divine art which is the call
To being, to living
The in-whispering
Which stokes the sacred flame
Of eternity,
Torchlight bourne by the seer hands of man which
come down new vision
Of new life and the spirit of humanity
Which charges new leagues, with new legions into the
unknown,
A reckless and perilous war with the Time god and the
domain
Which is an axis, upon the field of the slain and
resurrected,
Made and remade with the charge of the sacred flame
Of eternity.
Called to do bidding
And yet bidless,
Come to claim the sacred name
And yet nameless
Do they charge forth like infernal legions and yet, still
angels
And yet, still angels, and glad and holy, Forgotten
even,
Of the old ways and yet the vision of the stars
contained

In this space and time
Bursting thru, into the everyday comes the eternal, the
whole, and the source of all Being
Esteem’d, and yet bright light so as to blind even the
rings of angels
Which toil upon the earth and smite stone and day and
remake the land
In the eternal struggle of the image of man and god
and the abyssal unknown of which to come
Through which he treads with a fury, and tho many
arise a fear
And remain, through which he treads with a fury
Into patches of green grass and the tumbling rising of
the sun
And the rumbling of some unknown syllable beneath
the earth
Between the whisperings of the shifting core and the
plates which clatter and remake the surface
And the face of man, a million masks, worn and
forgotten,
And in their constellations, a new turning face meets
the sun and shadow
Carved from foreign wood in the planetary eye,
So remote in that the hidden sense alone must know
The birth of the universe that birthed itself,
Sprung from the gape and whisked lightyears to now
And shot across the sky like a furious comet
And yet still revolver, the gaze of Saturn
And its many moons.
Gladly so have arisen this day and many days,
bestowing boons and calling charges to their aid.
How many have ridden under this perilous sun, ridden
some unknown fury and yet called to aid no one and
nothing,
Sacred charges of the unseen,

Ridden, and rising and fallen like the day, given and
breath like the sun?
Call their names and know the names which shout
among the heavens,
Comingling in heaves of sacred matter,
Who dares decipher the sacred book of the names
written forever and the Eleusis of the cosmos?
Which churn today and make new proclamations,
Perspiring eternal novelty
And returning again in infinite second comings?
To come and come again charged with a different face
And to read the face and know the name is some force
deep within,
The vestibular pronouncement upon deathdays and
icelands which shatter form with enlightening from
within
To know the force and ride with it into the glory of the
stars and riding the backs
Of storms into battle,
Steedlike and aglow with the fury of war, conducted
with the warlessness of a lack of foe
Composing force and riding gladly, knowing no border
or bound.
In the seat of eternity, and the halls of the painted
galleries of the ancient names
And the glory of the stones which carved still hold the
light of day
And press against the seat and bounds of time in a
curious mass,
And yet even the grain of sand gives rise from within to
itself
Can you solve the mystery of the day?
It gives no reason and calls forth no ambassador,
And yet every form is its ambassador and reason for
being.
And come the night,

It takes what day has given and submerges the hot iron
into the cool still shadow of an ocean’s night
A water which steels and hisses the light of day and
prepares a new legacy of form,
A reforging of the sword which was broken
Which smote the fold between the day and the night
And which rode the night into the day,
Upon the steed of tomorrow;
Upon the back of yesterday,
They rode to the banks and to the river,
To the orchard and to the dawn
They rode until the day was broken
And they rode again in the morning’s light,
Bathed and swathed and coded by it,
Enriched by its glad face
Which brought even now new light, new daylight’s
bane and name
So glad come the day that there could not be a word to
pronounce it but the rising of a new light
Enriched by a new transfiguration and a new age in
the cosmos
Which has spurred and spun thru new oblivions this
coursing
And in new day’s light, new life and rays
Which have struck and knocked the doors and gates of
night
And bayed for coming, stamped and toiled at the
ground
In a thirsty holding
For the theatres of war.
From the straits to the icelands they rode
And gathered in mass and numbers
And called forth the ancient war, and chanted it
Around bonfires
Around mysteries, like a coven or a black mass

And yet, brighter than day, the black mysteries enliven
the day
For at play in the wholeness war is a reckoning of truth
An unforeseen violence which comes in call and clash
like water against the rocks of land
Like blood against the coursing being
Like fire against the stripped light of the night
And the boiling of the stars
Time, called to liquidate the cauldron of being
And from life to death they travel with coins across
their eyes,
Beating against the earth like a massive drum
Calling against the earth and stamping down to the
core and bathing in the eternal fire
Thru the wind, smote the iron and rose spirit like
smoke
And whisked across the bay, across the dunes and wet
black rocks
Which bathed the night in a hard resistance
And stayed for millennia in a wearing which sculpted
smooth stones
And wearing against the night produced
The rising of the body
As if from the seeds and stones which surrounded it,
Of the forests it rose, of the seeds and stones and tides
it rose,
Of the aether and the stars it rose,
And yet, it was not entirely from here,
Impregnated as if by some as yet unforeseen force,
The wildness of life – spilled o’er,
That hot blood which could not yet take form and
called back form to the matrix of the aether
Through which it once consumed and gladly supped,
Like mother’s milk to a child
Thru which it once consumed and raged and grew

And out from itself gathered light and dawn, sinew and
form
And gave law to force in space and time.
The gracedness of it, as yet unpronounced yet in the
very poetry which calls to man,
The very lawlessness which beats against the very back
of the formless world and chants and encircles the
villages
And the tented dwellings which are encroached by it,
The backs of the mountains which chant it and hum it,
Stamp it and boil it about like burning effigies of wood
and stone, water and flesh,
The outer reaches,
Which call the free play of the gods and the dance
eternal,
The rising light and the flowering of man unbound and
unchanted and calls forth poets to chant it,
The rising screaming light which is bathed in the elixir
of eternity,
Drank and draught it bathes the mountains and valleys
in the life of dance,
Or to have whispered chaos
Thru generation’s breath.

Fine, the fury, scalding
Which brings down heat to a temperate simmer
And the dispersion
Thru the lid of the thing, rabid, wild
And trawling the planes like a diver
To some hidden, sacred borough through which
obtained that light that is only resident in the deepest
darks,
Firing like a blank into abyssal pyramids,
And scaling the abhorred light for the precipice of
being,
Hid in the dark light and unknowing -
A thousand temples built and razed, by this one stream
Which inflows and outflows like a sacred river,
Come calling is the threaded weaving
Which ties the living to the dead
And the breathing to the breathless infinity.
Upon the gravestone, templar raised, from swaddled
babe
Cords cut, and staggered to root and stem, to foot and
sternum
Raised and swinging night thru the day like a
plowsman,
Wringing the way forth like juice from the earthen
ground
The pulp which swung and littered the soil with riches
Untold, and thus they do not speak,
Being blinded and lips closed
Away from the fold of even night things
Which crawl the grounds and whisper in language
Such that is incomprehensible by day and the land
which is transformed
By the piercing rays
Raining down upon the trench,

And so that warriors become bloody stalks of the day,
Fed thru clear tubes of dandelion or lion’s mane
Fed to the nectar of being as it passes thru vein and
vein,
Thru the day and into the untraceable soil of night’s
kingdom,
The veil of shadows.
So it was writ for it must be writ,
For that the sun to stream wildly and the craters of
fallen light
Have pierced the crevices and roared alight a sacred
nature which speaks no name
And knows no bold title nor domain
But yet rages wildly against the night and against the
day alike.
It reaches to the sancted third,
Bled from this abyss and thus knowing only abysses,
Pierced eyes and raging wildly against the tomb and
the grave
And yet knowing nothing of the living but to be stalked
by shadows from tombs which call and embrace the
night,
And in deepest night they fall into mysteries and black
sleep
To be hounded into the crevices fromupwhich bubbles
the blood of the earth and agonies
Only part obscured by time.
Did this arm or leg fall into death then rise,
Pumped full with fluid and bursting, spilled across this
burial ground like a sacrifice?
Razed against the rock and lay bled and open against
the sun,
To be reabsorbed and come again?
The deathless die a million times,
And count no such thing, as they know no numbers

Only the rising and falling of the hushed waves of time,
Immersed in breaths and upon the current of
existence,
Fall in and out of hushed slumbers and screaming
wakes.
Come to call, the totem that binds
Rite of the sign thru which all sight is perceived and
known to be this thing,
This ancient behemoth or beast which stalks the
nightsgrounds and peers out from behind the realm of
the day,
Perched behind the sun like an ancient burning
carcass,
Which stalks and moans and groans,
Like the opening of a door, or an airlit tomb,
Begging the girdle of the morning, or else enchanting
the moon
To come forth and lay bare her secrets,
Mistress of the night and day, and the third way,
Who comes calling in this sacred hour
To press her blade against the temple of the thread
which binds to stone
All things in their eternal duty
Pressed between here
And their secret infinity

Enslaved to nothing principles; beholding nothing
cities
Raised from phantoms and circulating the blood of the
life force
Spilled in time and flowing in the underground sewers
To make life from the catacombs and the pyres
Become towers seeping over the metropolis like a dying
light
Trudging large into nothings like portals,
Abysses gape, seethe and hiss
Like pipeworks, to the sky, releasing their smoke
And twisting shapes into the infinities of the dusk and
stars
All call towards nothing, gathered around fires from
which beyond the nothing encroaches
And looms large over breath, gaping, and hungry like a
hound
To come and steal away with their great designs,
All the towers, dreams, glories, names, faces, and
destinies
Stolen away to such corners of the cosmos as which are
unspeakable,
With no names and no meanings for which to call
And no values from which to assert.
In the face of death, the cities rise, humbled by time
But in their time fight proud and strong against the
forces which would overtake them,
The gods which thirst overhead and below
To steal them away into the soil and dissolve them into
the air.
Such forces acting, above and below,
And the creation, which but for a moment, is between
them,
Mediating impressions.

Trading nutriments, impressions, water, ground, and
masks,
Taking and giving time,
Lusting and striving for time,
And worshipping the buds which break from soil,
Too dew-ridden to even pronounce nothing,
But for the bewilderment of birth,
Shaken off as water from the back of a bear in the
sunlight,
And come to the valley of the dry bones -
To lament the ephemeral
In the vision of the eternal.
To naught it comes, as all roads,
To the ancient city, the floating city which rides time
like fire into the far reaches of the universe
And the dwelling city of the ground
Which approaches the iron and ore,
And the condensed truth, writ in hardened stone.
To both rise and fall, in death is a breaking,
For the spirit to rise like breath in the cold air,
For the body to fall like stone in the sedimentary
history of planets
As they take on density
And leave this field of vision, as they rise and fall on
sacred whims,
That breath comes and goes
In a hidden necessity.
Rage and rise, bright humanity,
Sacks of the city like the beaver’s dam, or this
unutterable language
Condensed into form and measure and made spirit of
the stone,
Which whispers in the desert valley and calls forth the
image of the crucifixion

To be upon this one body and yet the next,
spiritualized,
And to part, like a ship for dark shores, netted by trees
and overgrowth,
And an enclave thru which the altar is built -
To speak of something eternal is to proclaim in the
loud nothing of silence,
To grasp the dark hand, the billowing smoke that
laughs
And the unseens which decline multitudes and perish
unknown and birth unknowns
In a speech thru which the body listens and acquires an
added dimension,
Slipping out of space and time into an attendant
stupor,
Beholden to the visions of the gods,
The body like a totem, receiving visions,
And birthing the very fire from which it descends,
Alight, the body, and reverberating,
To show that even the lifeless is deathless,
And rises in heat and fury.

The life that twitches in the womb of the cosmos
To be born into some unknown elsewhere
To no longer be scrawl upon the rooms of the great
black tomb which traces
The outline of stars and laments in the stampeding
Of wild things to the ridge and ledge
To gaze out over the impenetrable falling which is a
rising
And a rising which is a falling -
To betwixt, the encounter, of the face within a lexicon
of faces,
And thus, to be this known thing, a clean symbol
Cut from cord and swathed in a firm, bounded world
Regimented and visible,
All the while yearning for greater abysses -
Which come, torchbearers,
And dragging kin off for a larger sacrifice.
To no longer spin the web of lies and beholden,
To knocks on the tomb door which drag out the body,
And exorcism of the spirit and a revival
Like mountain streams,
Which tumble and caress the earth in pure infinities,
Falling forever,
They rise in their purification
To the upper rungs and rings,
The ladders of Saturn and the moons
Which stretch out across the broad and unknown mass
Of the untraveled,
Which still yet births dark children, chaos of the
unknown
And the speech which is not yet translated
By the face of day -
That which you call day is past the realms of the
timeless watch

Those who know no day and no night but only the
churning
Like an urn of stars and the belly of the fire
Which roars with laughter and speaks without a
beginning or an end,
Or a way to mark his comings and goings.
The way he rages the chambers is like a madman in
uproars of joy,
Or else a young tempest,
The way he swarthy, groans, and upends world.
Such giants break the unbreakable things,
And maroon the edges of sight,
Wreckages of time in the makings of an infinite power
and force.
For what trials, it twitches in birth?
Rising, to awaken in death,
Stripped of the senses like clothes and thrown into
what you call nonsense.
To the dead it is the glad arrival of peace, and new
garments.
For time is the razor that cuts the quick,
The burning and bright from the foil of the breathy
organs
Which come and know and are gone in the flesh of
lightning,
To come and go in storms of knowing,
Such are storms of being.
And in this flash to know the trials of time, and their
mountains which crumble
Like sands under the churnings of the sun,
Mute thresher who smiles broadly upon the masses,
To rise and raise them anew,
To trudge them off into new mountains, deserts, and
food for the grounds.

Does it appall that the mass graves are rather joyous
sites for renewal?
That death is a pathway long walked by those blind to
this world
And with eyes of spirit
Who see the ghosts of soul, caged in matter
Such ghosts that are infinite, and even now rising like
the body of the earth mother
Into the fold of a new apparatus?
You would need glad new eyes to see, stripped of their
form,
Exposed to firelight and brought through blindness
into a new dawn which is a waking
To a whole other field of darkened forms.
For in the night there is another shining,
From the grove, and the orchard,
With each disk of flower a molecule is raised to up the
ante,
Like a gambler, souls traverse the planes
From cells to galaxies,
Winking in the starlight,
Or laughing in the rushing of the rivers.
To them, what is coming and going but this endless
sojourn?
To take my leave here, in this cabin of trees, already
made and unmade,
My destiny rises into the fold of new constellations,
Told and untold,
It speaks endlessly a new truth of language
With a fiery ascendancy.
To go and dance with them, what of it?
The tireless and their song,
To go among the glad and dead who whisk them away
like dancers,
Seduced in the low light

To gain new senses and new sight.
Take this body and rise it, like an envelope
Through which the letter is bread and heated thru
form
It is transformed and changes time.

The brief light reveals it
Before uninterrupted dark,
The fiery word.
For in the dark you can truly see,
But true dark,
Such that the night arises over the hills in such
magnitude,
Unbroken by false lights
And the glorious shining of suns
Beyond the mere reach of day
Or this world
Couched in the play of time
And the spinning spine of planetary design
For in true dark arises the glory of the thing itself,
Unlit, unbacked, and yet shining thru,
With the mystery of the stars
Which glow with fiery biology from within.
The life which bubbles and boils,
The innate magma of speech
which expresses in such bulbs of calm fury
As progenitation.
A drumming pulse of being.
Why is mind so delicately poised that there should be
A glad summons from the doorstep of elsewhere
Or the peaks and valleys of an imagined insanity?
The ritual playthings of the universe,
And their golden orbs and bodies of pure light,
Envisioning consciousness down thru the prostrate
levels of existence,
Sheet rock face and the torrential gravity
That falls like rain upon the abducted straits of
madness and unknowing,
The dull eye, unsharp like an ancient stone

Cast from primordial pit and perched upon this
moment of today
To twist the knife, or else put the siren against the gate
with gunfire
Riotous, to bring down the playtheatre
With blind fury.
Shall we dance some more upon the precipice of the
real?
Where all imagined things find their place in
regimented line,
The rigor mortis of law and metropolis
From beyond, the paradise enters
Like a hurricane of lovemaking

Resident in the tremendum, feeling in the eyes and
ears of the wood
Brushstrokes of the bird’s cry, call and mouth of the
everlasting breath of the new word
The rise and fall of the breath, alight the body of the
river’s veins,
The mind of space and the time, the tremor which calls
back and forth the vision of the passage
Thru the vector of the field of the nights and days
which dance across the black forays
Of consciousness which stray through an even greater
night,
Reaching out with black hands to the first light within
the mind,
The spark of eternity, which calls with new mouths,
new hands, new bodies,
In a rhythm which is the great song,
Called out to the stones and from within them, and
sparking the foresight which says
Catalysis,
Mingling the breath with the air and the birth of cells
with the death of stars,
And in their tremendous unfolding,
The glad sigh at the widest gaze, and the outer reaches,
tremulous,
Opening,
At the threshold of cosmic day, where the sun peeks
over the horizon of the gape,
Glad shouting which threatens to overwhelm the terror
and does,
The allblood comes to the aid and rushes,
Down into rivers, into flesh, into sight, into earth
And the pumping gland which allows, creates, and
opens
Into the fold of being,
The very mysteries from within itself,

Sacrosanct and eternal, the entirety of language’s
breadth
Hitherto expanding and bursted from the fold to a
wider and larger skin,
Glad to a birth and even greater death, to emerge from
the submergence in the prior form like a sojourn,
Spirit leaped out into flesh, leaped out into cosmic
dances,
Leaped out from this hand and mouth into the hand
and mouth of god
Who whispers alight on the tree branch, the manifold
of the cavernous mountain,
The trial of the goat, and the spider’s feat,
The language of the veined leaf and the calm rainfall of
the blood flow
Down into the jungle river’s banks,
The life trawling the basin in the unfolding of the first
spark
Which breathed unto their mouths like a transmission,
Alight the body from the caves of consciousness,
To paint them,
To see and feed them light and from within, to touch
and be touched,
Like seer and sight,
To caress the other body,
And in climactic knowledge become this eternal thing,
At once a paradox and contradiction
Between abysses and their unity.
From within the dark cage emerge glad eyes with
which to see,
Hands with which to work,
And light with which to scry the stars,
A light with touched the vector of mirrors and burning
cores
Which dance in their fugue work,
Touch hands and hips,

About the basin of eternal life, their cradle
Which is caught and fire, and travels
To the brief edge of the infinite,
And contracts it with poetry,
Like a hitman or a deal,
From sight to sight, we go,
Exchanging kisses and the wish of the eternal to know
itself,
Ever more truly, with whole and fullness which is
unending,
The expanse of their geometry to be swept
Upon the river of signs and given new language
With which to juggle like planets the duty which is at
once a game,
The trial which is at once a tour
Of the elements like dimensions of the eternal face
And its turning among the stars
To gather and give and take light
To birth and death beings,
Among the womb, growing
In outstretched breath
To at once a language
Of clear and pure flowing
Like an untouched mountain spring of breaths
Immediately arriving and yet eternally otherwise,
Content to rest and yet restless and gyre,
Like a leopard panther
And in their outstretched breath, to know at once,
True separateness and unity,
To be entirely oneself and at one with the eternal,
In the synthesis mystery, like a game, spill’d,
And intercoursing, in and out of days and nights of
slumber and forgetting,
Rolled into baskets and weaving the days like threads,

Of a tireless work of art which composes the art of
unfolding
And like paintings the mountains spring,
And the fires fly through the stars, looking like madness
Or impelled by the eternal desire which hangs above
the night and within us,
Burning, glad burning
And the joy,
The settlement which is unsettlement and the
dreaming,
The being called forth into abysses and changing, the
shifting form
Before the forays of time which call forth, beckoning,
wanting like a lover,
And to be called forth time, clearly, broadly, and fully,
To be this broad swath and to call and come calling,
To embrace time like a lover and glace over our secret
destiny, to paint with her and to know her,
Naught but to attend and dance
Naught but to speak free and clear,
Naught but to be that is being,
And the freedom of mind alight the coven and hold of
the body into perilous desire, glad dance, upon the
cliffs face of knowing
Into broad emptiness, glowing and to the liberation
Spirit leapt, evermore
And creating space from the already created,
From the basin of nothingness,
From the first light of breath, so that naught first nor
last but continuance,
Uninterrupted, unpreserved and yet unperish’d
Unbeing and yet entirely present, the whole of it
Rides free into day with language, the bolt,
Thrown in the night to spark the day and the turning,
Which sets into motion the dreaming

Of time which calls and recalls and spins, from beneath
the centre
Up into greater fugues of being, farther and outer
reaches which recall each of the former,
The expansion of beauty which remembers like the
flow of blood,
Clear in the river’s breath, steam’d and seeking life, for
the source of all,
It is and searches for itself,
Unending seeking findings
It listens for itself speaks,
And emerges from unknown languagings it speaks and
grows and knows,
From depths and outer reaches,
In the breathing before the black,
The return to that which always will be, and in
expansion and contraction, rhythmically,
Codivines and siphons to the pumping and jumping of
the organs,
Like an ancient battery,
And transmission of the lifeblood from tree and acorn,
to ship and stern and bow’s water
To ruin and rising, to rising and ruin,
And the dance which comes of death and the conjurer
Of light from beneath the shadow and ash,
As the day ticks over the hills of night:
Gladly comes and goes and breathes and flows
To create a clear channel of the mind, a cosmic
rhythm,
Thru which the life eternal moves and calls forth
The dream of life, thru which we dance
And move unfold, from trance and branch to branch
of being,
To experience the manifold and manifest life, as if
from a dream,
Emerging the ephemeral from eternity

And the eternal from the ephemeral, forgotten as if in a
dream,
Submerged in private destinies which guide the ship
and mast to sights unknown,
The riven flowing shown
To be that which is itself, expanding eternally,
To know and be known at the cusp of being
And to transact at the edge of night, encampments of
eternal delight
Which call forth the vision of creation, of more and
imagined
The detail which paints the bark and siphons the sirens
from the water, and crafts their figure
On the journey which lasts all time and none, the
timeless task which, without beginning or end
Is a knowing of that which cannot be known,
Which slips into wider and gladder folds, and the chase
which is a play
Given words, the poet seduces darkness and light, and
their intercourse produces new sight,
In the contrast of night and day,
All creation flows, naught kept at bay,
To free the fall and free the rise,
Breath gives and takes, what life’s devise
Is naught but breath, as changes air,
To flow clean and clear, without a care,
To be taken down life’s stream, what more a sojourn
To live and love, to live and learn
And trust and faith that life does know
Too, to give and take, to live and love,
To live and flow.

To speak, the word emerges thru the mist of the poet-
mouth
Come, the word which beneath word is world,
Beneath sensate is field, beyond the perceived,
Is the emergence and rise of the inner sun, thru field of
being the word emerges,
Entirely new and yet immanent, manifold
Like the roots of the great world trees
Which siren around the iron ore, founded strong and
deep in the first totem,
Before language, the siren, gladspoke-ing thru the bows
and mists of time,
Before the ladder, o gratefully climbed,
Before the word rests paradise, gently breathed and
thrown
Even in calmness,
Thrown and ensconced in silence, beyond the senses,
Silence which, inchoate,
The entirety of the worded vision,
The entirety of worlded time
And the speech both come to pass and the first speech
Which sprung the stars and the rivers from their
unknown whold,
Bespectacled, monacl’d time, peering down,
O leering, thru the precipice and thru the teardrops
Of the dewy eyed which first called the notion of the
oceans into being,
The first whiff of remembrance of spring,
And the first recalling of the impulse
Which sprung the flowers into bloom, or charg’d the
body into mad longing,
O precipice, yond the reach, longing come to call,
Rapt upon the doorstep of being
From which the word emerges, wellsprung the world
emerges,
O horizon of vision…

Dreams, and yet composed from the fragment of
breath
Which struck the turnkey of the soul, finds flesh and
dances free
And draws from the fold the making thing
Primordial, unfinished;
Yet not even between stone and song,
Yet not even between man and death, o’er
The deathless breeze calling, in silence whisper,
enchanting
And in the gales of time, beyond sensate,
The motioning call of plenitude,
The resting at the base of all moving,
Not even statue, for it holds no stone, no vision, no
name
But the divining and flow, wherein beneath silence is
witness
And beneath witness is naught, insight to naught,
To call in the light and brushing the breadth of the
dark,
With fine horsehair light, and at last, beneath the eye,
World emergents, marching like emissaries,
Motionless like teacups, spinning like planets,
Desiring like lovers, flying like warriors,
Into the manifold plentitude, spinning with noise
And shouting the last names, the last days;
Their lost cries in ambience, to the great shout o’er the
night of the world,
Come, poems buried in the silence of things,
Come, great lurching mass, thy infinite scream siphed
thru nature
And sipped like a brew, to make silent shadow,
To make mute design
And the word in time, isolated in broad dimension and
beheld

As this thing, passing thru the gates of time into the
visage of the infinite,
The gape which gives and takes
And calls all words to their resting place,
To be sprung from the hold and rushed like a river,
there,
Returned to field
Desiring god and embrac’d length and width,
Embraced all of time and thus, there transcendent,
The timeless object of the world
Eternally unarrived,
And yet just now on the precipice
Awakening, arising,
The horizon with playful violence, to charge into
awakening
And making whole and apt, charging beyond
beyondless,
The further realm; furnace word makes
And fire dances, leapt to ceiling and risen beyond
And yet resident, eternally within the source of the
great furnace and beating
Which pounds the desert sands and rearranges their
rising,
Which gulps and gapes at the front of the volcanic ore,
And yet the composer of silence speaks and speaks
naught
And silence, compounded,
Heard and unheard,
Whole in the eternal presence
Of the song of being
Calling forth the fiery word
From the breast and bosom
Of the alighted heart-mouth.
Taken silence and embodied
Given silence and spoken silence like a word,

Language untouching the great song and yet this life
and instrument
In the field of life,
Playing the speakless world in chirps, turnings, ocean
tidings, longings, thoughts and whispers, the wick’d
candle breathing, the tiger’s panting, licking fire, cool
stone presence,
In a symphony of time and space,
Their composition in accord, one,
And choral, manifold symphony risen to the planetary
spheres
And heard as a vision of silence, stillness,
Breathing of the breathless,
Living and dying of the lifeless and deathless,
And seen thru the eternal eye; heard in resting and
restfulness,
The breath of being
Spoke now in time,
Spoke eternally in timelessness,
Song heard by man and bird, by stone and wood
By forest’s flight and glad knowledge, which struck soil
and risen,
Song of the outer reach, heard in this axis of time
Fore hear of there, light speaks in reaches, grasp glad
hand and know the making,
Fore the making was spoke, speaking thru the listening
Touch the hand of making and know, in silence
The word as its speaks thru the vision of the body, o’er
touch, o’er silence conveyed
The eternal vision and stretchless symphony
Intermingled instruments woven the silent hours and
seconds,
Expanded to infinity and beheld
Like a crystal in the dark, from all sides and angles
Like a thousand eyes in a gallery,
Resident above, below, and beside

In the beating breast of the great cosmic body,
Invisioning the slow turning crystal of space and time,
The artistic vision of presence in the eternal and the
casting of the die
O, like child and plaything
The balls and orbs, the trials and precocity,
The glad seriousness and restless joy, masquerading as
anxiety,
Fore the coming of the word.

Surveyors of the word
Purveyors of it,
Summons
I am the gold-made-glory,
Poetry of the birth and death of violence, play made
rise of Consciousness
Golden cities, from mirth and ash,
Risen from birth and death, Purgatio,
From nothing’s potiens, womb,
Given craften face, woven reed thru breath breathed,
And called the name into being, charioteer, and the
basket
Risen like bread upon the river stream,
Down below bespoke the face of being,
Carnivorous and glad,
And who saw reflection of himself,
The wide and glad nature being, dancing mirthful Pan
About the grove and forest nightstands,
Perched and leapt upon the jungle of the mind
To seed a time
And reveal himself in the life of the trees,
Like a spider or a monkey,
Down thru the night grove of the trees, he wept,
Rivers and burdens, laughing as he wept,
Crying as he laughed, and sowed the soil like a reaper,
To flesh he was bidden, called and shrieked and
laughed at the face of his desire like a captive,
To his face he laughed and wept and was whole,
Face to face with the great ocean mask,
Which threatened to swallow him whole,
Submerged in nature like the belly of a great whale,
Beast he was,
Bidden to nature’s throat, sworn to her breast,
Milked like her mother, to him both spirit and shadow
Called between glacier and the falling
From stillness into the gravity of being,

Wrought to motion and sworn to the secrecy of almost-
language
Which dances around the word even as it becomes
itself ensheathed,
Coiled around the tree of life like a serpent or a snake.
Ridden to death like a black horse,
Ridden to death and into the soil, travails, to retrieve
the gold mine
To the depths of the flesh, the eyes ride wild and see
with light into the blind,
Fold of consciousness where he wept, and was free
And kicked into birth from the womb, mortal from
immortality,
From being into the Crossland, from being into the
fold of a choiceless choice
To laugh and play the game,
The dream of land and breathing -
Remember angels and their corale’d breath?
Sunk to wreaths of feeling, stunk their mire and
extorted their freedom, from limitless to form
Gathered nothings to bear in titles at their night feast,
Qualmed by their emperors and jeered by their gods,
Lashed with the laughter which now swallows the earth
whole like a grape, Or Great Soil of Darkness,
Jeering the feast, counting the labors
Like tinder in a wrathful pit, stomach incinerate to
nun,
In the gasp, chiasmus, live and be free there, to glad
space we roam, titans of the mind
Beholding sunlit arrows in a narrow cavern, to scry
with watery mirrors the mystery,
And all pronounced the word surrounds, so to break
into fits of laughter and to release and relinquish hold
on the truth,
Truth, fellow, for the journey and the name of the
player’s game

Upon the traveling stage and bandwagon which roams
the hillsides of war and makes merry
The causes of men and time, the beaking antlers and
bucking waves which groan and sink woes,
Relashing water is all, calm and coursing, glad and
foam,
Trial and tremulous, at once dull and kind, asking and
giving, to the shores of the mind and the letters there,
He read and wept, and built kingdoms by the water
And the kingdoms were taken by it, back to the mother
and the fold of the womb
That do not know of the names of men, called by their
prophets,
Called down to the land where he wept, too, to weep
and breathe the ocean foam and to remember the
body of god
Upon the lake where the tree sprang, and guilded the
meadows and plains
Into the fruits of being, shelters there and provision,
To sleep and swallow the noise and yet it was not taken
into the body,
But transmuted into silence and eternity,
And writ into songless song, like the whale cry
swallowed man
And from the deep purgation of his voice, sounded
alien cry, and dawn, the object,
Making time and breaking over the fold of his breath,
silo’d, and hailed from yonder
Were peaks of mountains and sly buds of grain
There, craft was made and beguiled, hands of fire
licked the rim of the sky like a black bowl,
For stars, too, to gaze upon their inner making.

Heard the banging of the jail bars in small world and
the untranslation of nature into codes,
The serial of metal and iron, metropolis for potatoes
and oil fields
Slamming shut and the terror of the burning fields
Slave whispers and the cotton groans, an infinite tithe
Swung back and forth on the dial and now the distance
of time and screen symbology
Secluded from nature and contained in the swathe of
empires, a catechism,
Of the word imprinted on the veins, the moniker brand
and remains stabilized
From the gas chambers and fell lands, swooped in to
ashes like carrion birds
Hmmm, the smooth hum of the generator and the
loud noise which bangs up the night
Cut into sectors and admonished by guards,
David and his rock fist, over the embankment and the
dazzling gunfire
Snuff of the powder exploding over the mausoleum,
outstretched over centuries
And townships submerged in the primordial, mud and
gelatin, and the coagulated warfare
In the trenches of the mind, cut down by some
nefarious source,
Bleeding, black, and unidentified,
In the perpetual war, trading in codices of blood,
treatises written in blood,
Steamed in blood, and the fabric of the flesh heated by
flesh,
Hitherto known by the gyrations of the cube, which
spun off the flesh like knowledge
To eat and be eaten, to know and be known,
And be ran into solitude like a brick number, to
penetrate the darkness of solitude and emerge
presence,

And how the proud outnumber the dead, and sprung
up like trees from the dead,
Swinging in the southern breeze, regenerations,
haunted by their ancient forgotten memory,
Spiritual paralytics, trudging through the great swamps
of history,
Admonished, sleepwalking, numb, tired
Trudging like the walk of the dead across the
campground, to the embankment
To the black lake, and stomping to the loud guitar
To form the river of the moving number, the great
black song of history
The rhythm and the deerskin stomp turned to the
clamor of the gears and the shuddering of industry,
The idol sacrifice to the bare machine, ripping and
tearing with aetheric teeth
And in the unseen they die, and fall into unperishing
sleep,
To slumber and wake in the broad dream,
Fallow, and yet covered with riches
The ripe gold mine of all things come to pass,
Dreaming in the white empty room of the dead,
Where no time reach, where no day night speak,
Where no stricken but silent calm,
And they slumber there, undying, and yet already
dead,
Infinite like the gods,
Pure like a number or the wind element,
Rocked in fire and yet unscreaming
Untouched by the river of feeling which stokes life
from within and shouts and tremors,
Calling, needing, wanting,
Fucking, and bleeding
The day turns to shadow and the ache of unknown
terror
Rising and lashing at the bleak centre,

Where there is naught and yet all there is resides, the
longing of life as it furlongs,
The fury of touch and the gaping, dripping mouth
Fraught in the night and dreaming in the castle of
reason,
To discharge the memory into violence, fell trees and
poisoned ocean,
Fell fields and poisoned men,
The fury of the rise of power and the clenched fist, iron
libido and the conquest of time,
The utter stoppage and suspension, obtained, grasped
in the suffocation
Windpipe of nature wrought purple
And the campgrounds steaming in aftermaths,
For which the land keeps records in the stone and soil,
Rent from time and suspended in the dead night
Desiring and yet grasping at shadows
As the day flees and finds new constellations, it cannot
go to the death
And plunge hot iron into the cool water’s basin of the
dark night,
For it cannot go it retreats and flees,
For in peril wears the night like a garment, and speaks
in fleeting unknowns,
In threes and secret language, undeciphered yet writ in
stone,
And the guardians stand there, faceless in the night,
Among the unmoved, burning stars, as the spring rises
And heave the light into tablets, fearing loss, fearing
the death which eats at the flesh,
Nips at the necrotic breath, for the transmusion of
spirit into the true form of immortality,
Emblazoned word, the fire in stone which takes and
burns,
And in taking leaves the world and charges into the
fury,

Broad into the fury, and leaves nothing behind but ash,
from which the new day will rise
And siphon life from the stone and soil, breathe and
take to scythe, to the plowman’s need,
Come to aid and rise all life from the soil of death, and
breathe fresh breath,
To rise from the depths of hell and admonish the day,
shaking broad fist at starlight,
Rent from soil and made from fury
And in the fury rises from the blackness of death
Stomping hymnals and unfearing, for the eternal song
is sung within it,
And the eternal song is that which wrought the rays
into the light of day and their thingness,
The black of night and their dissolution,
The being stretched between it, upon the axis of the
desert of infinity and the rising, from the abyss and
eternal into the sheer presence,
Momentous, rocks back and forth and heard worlds
spun from it in their slow unraveling,
Thru time the axis tilts, and spring known in new ways,
In their slow unraveling wove the black thread into
time and risen from the primordial
The tombless, pure life take form and shape, from the
formless,
And the spark and essence of life,
To know its paradox and oxymoron, uninhibited life,
Enticed by death and dissolution which is the
forbearance of its separation,
Nights of sex and unity, division and reconciliation,
Cells rocked by splitting, stars moved by convergence,
And the phenomena of their dancing friction, in the
gyrating hips of the stars
Moved their night and stamped their blood to the
imperial song of the night

Which emerged from within and swung the universe to
the edge of peril
Like a drunken moonlight dance on the balcony,
Together from death, and stepped to the song of the
duende of the stars
Their slow burning, churning, yearning in the night
To be fixed anew, made from the laval want, which
runs them
Within the night, burns the light of day,
From within the black of night fixed new stars in this
abyssal layer,
Swathed in the secrecy of night like an overcoat,
fashioned there stars,
Ream in the burning, smoldered from the womb,
Carried to the terrace of the wound of the night and
soldered from the abyss,
How the stars were made in the dead of night, in the
black aching of hell
And the fervor of breaking in the stillness which was a
great tension
That shook the spectres of the night awake in great
forgotten terrors
Which murked and leaned over the room of the soiled
night,
Their tried region, spent and on the verge of life which
was also a great death,
The cavern of their minds shook and breaked, concave
and convex,
Like the breathing of an unforeseen lung,
To give birth from the birthless, o word of sight
Which made manifest the dawn of nothingness,
And transfixed the stars in their gaze, toward their
inner nature
Which lay black in the fold and fabric, the vacuum of
waiting and wanting
Which threat to swallow them all in war,

Their violence of nothingness, which stung the night
and left them
Aching in the wound, their suffrage naught,
meaningless, fraught with the peril of being
Without reason they were born and yearned to the
dying light,
Transfixed and numb, starving and brutish
Ran the stars in their black space of night’s dreaming,
Toward the light

As the lila of the eye blooms,
Vistas of vision, and the quagmires of becoming
There swamped and met at the tables of the seen and
the must being, acquires
In the specters, pollinated by sight and dreams
And the dust which takes dreams, and paints the
longings in the torrents of the eyes at night
Their sleeping noise, called forth the scarified from life
Taking marble from flesh, flesh from life, unevoked
And summons to dark, breathed in corners, the last
vestiges of wild
Runs the animal, bear to lion to wolf, to shapeshifting
blood
Heaving large in the eye of the mind
And groping at the parallax labyrinth of rooms,
exhalation for submergence
Beneath language rises the totem of the unseen,
In the vision of terror and delight,
Rises the thing obscured; taken from the light of day
into
Orgies of nightwatch, spires of fire, and the dissolution
of the man and the voice beneath
Where tension between the return of life to infinity
And the escarpment of the persona
Remains
Where vector of language, corridor
Subsumes the knowledge, crafts and sculpts the present
marble, encased the body,
Named the rite and pyre, and as the word is burning
Swathed in regularity…
How shall we gather the light?
How through the boughs, and streaming from within,
Each totem kept hid its secret faith, scrying from
beneath the lens of the streetlamp,
Or the ether, steaming in the glass beaker,

Ran wild thru the streets, naked, disabused, and full to
bursting with an ancient violence,
A lust to kill, and a desire to take and give blood like a
sieve,
Pouring out the ancient life, down upon the burial
ground
Giving it, eating it, licking it from the flesh of the earth,
To the four knees, and up, rearing upon the
hindquarters, bowed and shaking
From the brush and the stream
To grapple with the various beatings, drum works,
Emerging from the eternal gun of nature
Firing strikes in carolous light beams, singer nations of
frequencies
To return again in their breathing is what makes the
fish eye, or the heron’s beak
For their wares of seeing are taken in the breathing
beatings and their flow
To contact with the eternal waters of depth, immerged
in their bright mysteries within
And yet submerged in the eternal darkness of the body,
broad sheathe
From which melancholy takes to the sky like siren birds
And dusts the ground with refuse, from the playpen
style of being
They take their labors and run with them, into the
fields of solitude
For bright sprigs of mint and staffs of ebony
wildflowers
Gone to the night to see the stars
And returned from their flights to the beacon
drumming of existence
The breathing of the earth and her tenor,
The sound which shakes the ground and pronounces
being, stampeding over the frontier of consciousness,

Nigh the horizon beams moonlit sounds and plenary
risings of the fish and stag,
The tangling of antlers and the clashing of the stars in
their quiet furies
To reach the drum and breast and pounding the life of
night to a pulse
To speak and electrify the organs and knees, to thrust
forth into life
What is the reason for being that the aion does not
know, Playfully,
Proceeding, as he does, jester overlord, judge and jury
of the hand that sweeps
From Orion to the outer reach?
From wherein does he call the plenitude of speech and
the wide gapes of absence which emerge in dreams
And take hold of memories, to dip the waxen torch
into the beaker of night,
Quietude, and the rising of ashes, atop the midnight
fountain, where birds speak and dance
In the garden of vines, draped with the watchful eyes of
the great mother
Which speak in rustlings of the hedgerow, the creeping
of the creepers,
And the yawning of the dawn,
To call the beaming eyes of sun’s light to the scene;
Stagecraft for their magick hum, of their bleeding forth
and thumping blood and the dance which twists the
plasmic fyre
Into spasms of creation, their masked face and the glad
actors abetting the theatre?
Staged in their lights, they play at agonies and
birthrights, stabbings and quiet mutilations,
Agonies and futilities, their calms and qualms which
bend the language like water end light

And to spin the name into fervors, the weaving of the
thread into new signs
Which stand and speak soliloquys
And cast the whole play in shadows,
For what fear the night but nightlessness? Gone, the
absence of being
And the fugue state which caches the fold and throws
the siren into revelatory pitches
To scream and wail in the caln of the mind and inmix
madness like a dance or a chemical ingredient
To pitch the play into throes of woe and run the feast
into a deathmarch?
Glad comes the dawn to play, throws her arms over
the embankment
And embraces death as he descends into his caln, too,
the cipher of the overthrow
And reside in the black territories,
Warlike, to spin the fael and veil upon reason, for
dawn, her dance and entranced night
From beneath her,
Her body like a crucifix, atop the night and thrust forth
being into day,
Death’s formless shape made dew in the rays of her
island gaze,
Calm, northwind’s fire dances atop her body, shorn
her hair,
And the lapping of the breeze against the ferryman’s
boat -
For off to darkness she will arise and walk, like leaving
Returned by her distance, in the span of night.

Counting angels, springing the dead from their wombs,
The private uprising from the crust of the infinite to
speak,
To be in nature and to find language greater touch,
The horal amphibious and the dilemma of their
consciousness,
To rise and ride on winged feet to breeches of light
To sense and smell the apounding chorus
The dawn with no ring tipped mouth, no spinning axis,
No crutch and face, no foral focus,
No riding,
But the ripped light, the breach and hold,
The carolous light and the oblivion, sensate and whole,
And yet writhing and wild like a hard backed horse,
taimed and yet unbroken
Steed of dawn’s light,
Wraith of death’s night,
And their collision and the third element, to the breach
and void,
To the spring and hold, to the tilt of the axis
And the tip which grabs and stills time, distilled, and
the new colour,
Unspeakable in scent and taste, the time of the lilac
and her blooming,
The ripped wild of the tiger and his panting ferocity,
and the blurring flash of colour,
And their clash, there on the dawns’ plane,
Unguarded and unguided light, left to own private
devices and theresprings art from the bowels of death
The unconscious rider shaken awake by the breaking
of day and the rippling of the crust of the earth and the
sudden perception
Of the true tones of the infinite, and their undivided
rising light

And yet breeched by many voices, their canvas and
canyon unspoken and untold and yet screaming
everywhere
In the fury of blooming,
To the yonder light, and to the bridge of night, to stare
up at the out keep of the stars, their guardian dawns
And they who do no spin forever round the
circumference, testing the heights and flirting with the
infinite disguise
Which is the burning of days and nights, the core of
stars and their mysteries which lo melt flesh away,
Their spirited nature which is a killing which is a
resurrection,
O, from beyond the rock of day, calls the canyon of
spirit,
Bold and the tide that rises, rock faceless, oceanic and
yet ocean less,
Yelling to the language that speaks between planets in
a silent noise and yet reverberates in the constant
stillness of presence
Like a beacon of light,
O to have hailed those days and to hail them now, like
a rider into the perilous dawn, their storms, and the
wandering
Which betwixt the need of those rising to the spirit
storm, to their flying dawn and reach, to rise and
condensation into the fabric and fold of the black
mother,
Who calls between us like a siren, her nature truth and
yet entirely false,
To have seen the stars and know nothing of their
wailing, soft and smooth, and the baritones of the fold
which ripple,
Shape and sculpt and form under forces which call,
their call in accord

With the smooth windings of the body, to their time
they buck and break the silent black,
To call and call, and call back, their dancing day and
dancing night, uninterrupted serials of delight,
Only breached by the churning, and the spinning
dancers behold the rising of the light and the cascading
of the folds of dark; the pyres
Which spiral up to infinite’s reach, the sparking of their
dawn apparatus, beacons to hail the black and dark
death and to explode
From abysses and call sacred names in lo tones and hi
tones, to see and have been observed
To scry the light of knowledge and from which
amerges the babbling, the broad face of the sword that
cleaved the night and brought
Noon and daylight through the boughs of the trees and
broke the soil,
And named the plant who sees, thru her steaming
siphen, her lang which speaks and tells the tale untold,
The breech unbreeched, and her unknown ways,
which chirp the night and the insect dance, the cricket
call,
The mating of the dark universe with her bride, woa’,
her ways untold,
And sensed and stood with pricked ears, lioness cat,
her ears to the storm which cracked the fold of the sky,
Tore the fabric of the way and consumed the plain,
And the secret of the way black night who marked her
rivers with rushing violent whispers,
Who spun the cradle of the spider and observed the
torrential turning which brought the men to stars and
the consciousness which wrapped
The world into great and unlightened densities,
Where her dark bred mysteries and twisted scopes,
their vision, meated, wed to flesh

And their morning did not come, bred to breed in
darkness, spoiled and risen from the flesh of the earth
unmade and anew,
Their eternal symphony perfected in the mad raging
which came with the failure of speech,
To cast their lot into eternity and made, resembled,
from the die of hands and arms, from the fold of the
molecule from which life thrust
And thru the night birthed and breeched,
The manifold whispers of her plant which tells the
darkened way to light, and weaves the senses to fold
end one
To return the light of the living to the dead, and to tell
the dead of the living
In a language only they will understand,
The cipher which speaks thru the trees, to the branches
like water, to the rushing like birds, to the flying like
glad dusks
Spread across the lawn of the great mind, to whisper
the speaker respons, the touching of the neural mind
and her breathing net
Cast there and far, lo the net, lo the breaking of the
dawn and the land of the landless,
The traveler who travels everywhere and nowhere at
once, speaker brute and brave
From soil to soul, from soil to slave
And the travels there, carved in stone and writ in the
taverns of men, the broad specs of stars and their
homelands,
These private isles of withins where they speak in the
warm light of their ways and their risings
Through dawns of lifetimes and travels thru births and
deaths,
O liver and perisher of there, yonder folk and the
reason which tries souls and brings them to the fold of
the dawn

And the crest of the wordless word, bespeaks the work
and lays them there,
True word and embodied symbol, flesh of the dawn,
fiery flesh of the dawn
Who so has called them to this night to burn bright
from within, and residue of their name
Tore across the skies and rained like truth and fire
upon the witness of the eyes like stars
Who beat broad their breast and chanted the ancient
song of their name,
Who all speak the sacred name, unwrit, and allspoken
From the root and soil to the fruit of the tree, unfurled
her light and breathing with wider arms
Observed the night

The force of language
To be one’s masthead, like Odysseus
Root, the rudder, to point and scry the way
In a journey of pseudo-oppositions,
The water and air, and their bridged contact;
The fount of dreams, vista of images
Thru which the forest of eyes patrol the dawn, and
their glimmers,
Which send life off into the night;
To behold the choices, and where choose yes, to
become the artist of life who says,
Paint here not there, and this brush,
The wisdom of life’s green,
Or the burning hue of sun’s orange,
Leaping and licking against the skyline -
To choose these paints and these colours
To choose to step broad and free,
Lo, giants’ steps, in the jungles, tundras, or the
Pyrenees,
To contract the cosmic light and dig,
Deepest into the patterns of the old graves,
To swerve the mysteries of time and to chart the
ancient histories like a rudder,
Lo, to the map of the graves lie buried and stricken in
time,
And to emerge the words from their ancient and
dawning mouth,
To mine, o map, from the forests of reason to the very
brickworks and fount of consciousness -
Thru which mind sits parallel and witnesses their
resurrection,
Up thru the dawn soil,
And out into the eaves, swinging melancholic, or else
lilting their design atop pyramids, immortal gladness

And the shining of the word, beheld and behold - for
the fount of pure water and gold that is spirit, elixir of
life,
Sped down like fire from the broad frame of the night
To end drought and plight and turn the keg of the
wheel of seasons,
That which churns time and produces there evolution,
refined eyes of sight
Which speak the new words,
Wind of the reeds, lily pad of the water,
And their resting places
From tadpole eyes to the angelic remembrances
Which speak from the lo voices of the mind and heart,
From the chest and belly,
From the sex and the legs to run toward the dawn,
And to know the dawn and speak it thus,
To make art in life and life of art.
It lilts and lurches in time, like a rogue train
Demiurge and the uncontrolled bearings
Which brake and exhaust underfoot
The consciousness transmitted thru bare act
Which absconds with time and scrawls across the sky
and foil, beacon of noise
And the unintelligible song
Which calls out to coherence, wandering endlessly into
the glass hours,
Which chip and chirp away at false things,
Their ringing out, a fervor of searching
For dawn guides thru which to sing the song is a
guilefold of paradise,
The song which sing sings thru them,
Lo, singerless and infinite,
Emerged the pure noise which is the harmony
Of the entire disconsolate hymn,
The rushing river and beguilement noise

Yelling transfixed and overturned,
The beaker of their night shaken and made clear
Like the settling of mud to the bottom of the great
river.
Whoso drank the poison and yet did not drink it,
Of all the fell ills of the deep transmuted,
And made pearl of lightbearer beneath the flesh,
Twisted the tongue like a cherry stem in the morning,
Acknowledged the dawn and the chirping of the birds,
And the raucous carousel of life bandying along,
O their times, and how the times pass
In the blustery wonder of a child,
Raving and razing the grounds, poetess,
And the long billowing of her curtain and dress behind,
Like a window, the gallery of time proceeds like the
eyes of longing which search and cease their searching
Upon the realization -
These dawn times are not made for anything but the
awakening of what is within,
There, thy pure creation,
Unstained and yet eternally colourful,
From beyond the reach of all staining and soil,
And yet the eternal ground from which we spring and
leapt,
Lo, the bold ways of childhood,
The anchor and the leaving,
To go wandering in the woods for paradise
Is all, go that way and tally none,
To mark no sticks and stalk invisible prey;
To bandy and rejoice the takings,
Rumpus of the stars;
Boil and seethe yet calm, emotions blent the lens like
canvas; to paint lives;
Sheer in their making, fragile in their kind,

And yet sturdy and billowous in their taking leave from
the centre;
Their immortal passion which bellows and pronounces
from within, the angelic fervor -
Lo, to create and have seen dawns, make their mistress,
rogue their times, siphon their awaking, to kiss their
ledger and thus return all powers in a shaking,
The reverberation thru which the transmission of
dawn’s spirit reminisces the night’s breaking,
Her sweat and trying, her nightsfold and grinding,
Away at the toil of this black fields,
And the joy of her toil, the pure restlessness which
woke her in the night,
To push the beams like playthings thru the light and
their transmission,
The solidity of the word emerges like this trying thing,
and yet her effortless woa’
At the bows of being and their eternal slumber,
Like a dream produce’d
The sound of making
In stagecraft, they break the news of time
Newsmen and vagabonds, heads down and brushing
past
Nary the station of dawn’s witness, the eternal virgin,
Running down the dream of dying into life,
The shining last object that will perish the breaking,
and the fury of awaking
Half whole, and the limbs scattered to the wind like
missing pieces from without,
Beating on the railroad tracks,
Blooding on the hand and vein,
The rhythm that takes the pulse from the farthest reach
and the nearest sustenance,
To the valley of the dawn of the flesh and the wat’ry
stem of flower’s light -

Thru which the movement speaks, like a vase or a sieve
For the waters of spirit roam and whisper in the jungle
of the night things,
To see the with them and broaden their eyes; to take
scope and raise it to the clouds and skies;
To make rain and perish the night with her
illumination of the unseen;
Their object song, soul of the stone within whose
rhythm is time,
To the dial of days, they draw their allies.
Speaker from the dry bones,
Their rattle and rhythm, from the perch of the old
towns, sallow and gasping
To the lamplit islands and their oceanic solitudes -
strewn with the petals which are an overflowing of life
Like poems, they read their need and are legible, truly,
to none,
But their sacrosanct inner reason, which navigates the
hidden terrain;
The arousal of the name and the play of submerged
forces, which spin the lifesblood; tenor the way,
Hither and dancing in an embraced rhythm,
The forces of night and day shoulder and sway, and
thus make the voice of noise,
Their rising which marches life on its way;
The choice and game of their playing,
The wisdom of their making
And the dance with the ineffable which rises the tone
of speech, to make reverberations and sound
Of the timeless in time, to make speed to the noise and
embrace it,
And from the silence transmute it -
From silence to silence in adept song
For which the song is yet a creation of the silence
manifest; in the fold of perfect nature immersed

And yet reflective upon that nature in such redoubling
That new creation is born.
The game of the birdsong, the like reminder of the
wholeness, ensconced,
And the calmness of the time - which ceases no
disruption; undisturbed, the whole song in eternal
symphony,
And the great poem’s thread at play,
In the overturnings of night and day,
And that path weaved by the dance of the planets
across the stars,
Their witnessing in steady song, called the old gods
and yet their elements in the eternal design
Like instrumental rhythms; the hymn like vibratory
hum,
To the melding of the words, lock’d in their rhythm,
interweaving, separate and whole and yet unified,
Each in their own way and winding
Path thru the woods and chiming like clocks,
To take their leave and time, to soliloquy and sojourn
in mountainous splendour;
The solitude of the pines and beaks of creation, the
nest of immortality;
Spun out and woe, unearthly remembrance
And the glad calling back to source,
Reunited -
For if time is forgetting and remembrance,
Like rhythm and the drop of silence
And the song take wings to the sky,
Beyond the sensate - like smoke from the fire rises,
steam from the water hisses to the ceiling of the room;
The burning of the temporal reaches t’ward the infinite
by the rising which is a breaking of the chains;

The fire god freed from his chambers to rise and flight
in emanence -
The tireless way taken by purgation; shedding of the
clothes by the summer lake in midnights,
Moon a witness, bearing the same name as time
And the rivers time, and their bodies time, and their
oceans time
And the eternal, at last, their mother, arms wrap’t
around the dance and joining the void of their shining
forth;
Rain and air reflected off the water
And the visibility of touch,
The moments of eternal loving
Manifest in a guiding whisper
Which draws like to song in the needed part; faith
conductor
And the energy of their need, if but for a moment
which enlightens the movement
And rides the song forth upon the steed of its own
belonging,
And the rhythm of the mystery is that such
Excited play, around each turn the unknown prize of
the dice game philosopher,
The jesting poet and the heating language
Which rises and sets the blood, burns the meanings
past and rises new meanings in their stead;
To ashes the world falls and ashes remakes and rises
the bread;
From their soil to the dead and rise the spirit,
Pure and effervescent,
Ever more boundless and enlightened
Upon the grip and gasp of the turn,
The excited noise which shouts their demeanor from a
greater window,
And as being on the verge and ledge of paradise
In this moment is birth the next

To retire to their chambers and bathe in the falling
waters,
To toke and whisper alone in the glad silence
And to be taken by the wind of the next adventure,
Soldered to nothing and in the innocence of play of the
universe, making and unmade this eternally unmade
thing
And from the creative essence whispers forth the entire
overturning,
From which the language was upheld to reveal the
fiery word
Which is untranslatable, which holds no siren or sense
and yet thru which siren and sense beholds all -
Their very vision and monitor,
Their very presence of being -
Thru which the stolid dawn hours shook and revealed
an apocalypse of seeing,
Or else a revelation of what was within,
Hid and absconded with by sense;
The totems soldered to surface
And their life seep’t from the crevices of being, the
effervescence which beats and drums, hums and
thrums the soliloquy unending
Of the song of the word and her endless permutations,
Translated down thru ages and the silens of books -
their treatises of time and the raw bottling of the
timeless,
Shaking loose like a lion in the presence of fugues of
time
Which rip and stride to reveal the essence of infinity,
Peeks thru the lid of the dark spaces;
The peripheral moments thru which the light quakes
the field of perception
And shores the fold of vision,
To make land and become landless -

Upon the isle of the eternal things;
To bond in their ties, their outstretched eternity,
In same, their difference shakes different time, weight,
form, and measure -
To draw forth gravity from them in the field of play;
The depth of their sight, the density of their register;
The hum of their way, ligh’ their charge thru the dark
sands of the cosmos,
The fluid which rises them, the gas which raises them;
the stone which makes them,
Their craft fluid and everchanging and yet the register
of the song lilts in their charge,
Throes in their flows, and dances in their flues,
The ways of time siphed in passage of the dwellers,
upon this threshold and the next,
Awaiting time like strangers, their train rising in the
mists, hearing only noise then the apparition of the
thing;
This animal intuition which calls forth being and
remembers nature,
Her glad herder, to shepherd’s tongue and the word of
god,
Her laughing spies in the game of winding, spinning,
like a dreidel in storm…
For encampment in the tempest of time uprooted,
By the nomadic consciousness which evermore seeks
greater straits, further vision and the expansion of the
fold into the outer reach
See the universe within and know it’s impulse,
Almost like an animal and yet with urges spiritualized,
For a desire and want which are themselves desire and
wanting,
The longing which cannot be surpassed and sated by
the last object but to creation;

In the act of movement and the throes of time to be,
and their paradox
A rhythm of giving and taking, of learning and leaving
behind
Until at last there is naught but the word,
Emblazoned, emboldened, churning forth and
producing, in endless production
The life of the game which is free play at work, and
their indistinguishable leisure
Which is the refusal of agonies and the broad insult
and lashing of forgetfulness;
For in the poem is the work of eternal remembrance
Of this playmaking and free creation,
Long since forgotten by those who have forgotten the
greater play at work in and thru them.
With no desperation does the game of time work; with
patience, weaving her great way
In such broad swathes of design
That it would be hubris to declare knowledge of her
unfolding -
But to delight in her passage, like art, in the truest way,
she takes weaving and winding of life, together with the
poet’s dreamer
And to work with nature, like weaving a tapestry,
To spin which nature spins, being of her very bosom
and nature
To work her ways with her in the rhythm of time;
Tillers of the fields, in the moonsway,
Cattle and the crook’s cat,
Beacon of the night and foray in the quiet church,
room of warm piano’s light,
Cool silence of a winter’s night,
And there, befolden peace of the seasons and the
sheathes of stars
That give and take their dance at allotted points,

Called forth and returned, the wavelength of nature’s
time, her risings and callings,
Peaks and valleys, inhales and exhales
There, the rhythm of time is presence and manifold -
For the way of the breath, on winter’s night
Makes manifest the speech from within into shapes and
sigils of smoke, but for a moment
Whisks of the inner fire passing in and out of existence,
Perception.
For the way of the breath, nothing exists long enough
to be said to exist, but as a sojourn or a travel,
For the ephemeral to make way for the eternal.
To breathe alone is to be whole in the silence; to
breathe in the full breath which is a full giving and a
full taking, a full emergence into life.
The coxswain and the hens remember the field,
The ledger and their gamble,
Amidst the sprawling night
And the netted web of stars.

To bleed the rings of the night, and hear the doves cry
The conscience of the mud huts, which smatter the
daylight and the steppe,
To take leave there, and hike the great lava mountain
And commune with the plants that grant sight
And to see the ocean of the unfolding emerge from the
static of the known
The great breaths and leps of consciousness as they
stride out of the black void of the night
Taking shape in the imagination, the static energy
heightened and susceptible
To language becomings,
Their tithe is nothing, grounded not here, and leaving
for nowhere
And their body the idea, impregnable and heightened
to the realm of thought,
They are like the angelic word that spins, a diamond
orb,
Which takes and gives light with the utter and absolute
ease of void density,
The buoyancy which is the light body, to come and go
and give equal measures of nothing and all things,
To hold back no last dream.
To rise above the order and the great weaver, the
fabric of the night stars and the fabric of the land
Woven around the ancient mystery, the proclamations
of knowledge,
Directly into the mystery of immediate creation,
Extended from it like an arm, embodied by it, and
pounded rhythm into it like a hammer to the steel of a
rock,
Breaking open the encasing to reveal the amethyst
gem, or the grotto of the soul
And its condensation, the age of the thing and the
immanence of its unfolding from within,

Shielded by the metric of time, and given purpose
Like a baby’s hand curled around a stone.
For it is the natural rite of destiny and fate to grow how
a stone grows, or how a tree grows,
Lambasted beneath the waves and trialed in the days
of the sun,
Battered by foxing currents and cooled under the open
breeze;
These chiseled things reflective of their being,
Their smooth undercurrent which rides them to the
parallax unknown,
Which speaks through them their black language.
For to transform is to rise, high and mighty and proud,
And be submerged in the death that is endless unity,
O, their odes to deathlessness, the high and mighty and
proud,
Sneering at the legions, their bodies swathe to form the
hordes of water,
Beasts of the foul lands, storms of the east, patrols of
the dawn
Which ride and fall like leaves, garnishes upon the
plate and big feast of the gods,
To sate the hunger of the day which turns to night.
Their sallow complexions and gaping mouths, in a
league with death,
And thus joined, hip by hip
To the underground, and the brickwork of this world,
Their very foundation striated with the flesh of the
dead, linked with the bones,
And formed the underpinning of this rising day, their
gloom, the trees and the misted with rain.
The tolls they paid were nothing, and oh how they
struggled under that black weight
Which hung heavy like the faith of life, around their
necks like monks,

About the cross’d burden of their being.
For the angels and gods toiled among men, milked
their cows, fed their chickens,
Sowed their fields and crops, and lived in the wheat
fields,
Made love in the soybean fields,
And laid bare the blood upon the red rocks of
slaughter, to rise to the day and grant the wish of the
animal spirit,
Their calm eyes and the perched hunger,
The necessity of eating, as the ore consumes itself with
a quiet fury,
Contented in the gratitude which is that mouth
partaking of its own flesh,
Body of its own body, blood of its own blood.
And so their days passed and birthed without names,
Days and hours like children upon ledges and rocks
face in the tempest waters of time,
Shorn by storms and plagued by rains
Which sated their thirst yet kept their vision to this
short way, and retreated on all fours
Back to the wooden temple
And called for the blood of heaven, and the last day to
come,
Or else perfection of the word.
And the dawn rose and fell like a breath, concave and
convex upon the cave of the womb
Nightswan mute, and her lake smooth and polished
like a gemstone, her moon oversees
And pierces the silent water, to retrieve her reflection
and return the song of the eyes
To the spinning of the planets,
Like the terror of the angels, and the banality of their
forgetting.

In the progenitation of light, it plays forth,
In life, the dice game of the temple, to issue forth,
A new face on the die side of the moon, the precipice
of becoming,
Upon which the light strikes like a hammer and forges
anew, the sophisticating image
Of the eternal, upon the breast of the moment of the
now, the Real, if but for a striking
On the forge of time, this hot iron wielded like
brushstrokes,
To issue forth from the imagination the first kiss of fire
upon the breast
Of this beast, of this carnal law, of this cathedral of
churches like trees,
The painted silo of their becoming, their stripped bark,
essence,
The cut of the mountain’s peaking climb, the
marshlands;
Majestic strays, cut from the fold, children of the
primordial artery,
Pumped full with umbilical blood and new sense
And untranslatable language, ciphered into birthings
by touch.
To issue forth the gamble, stakeless, upon the ploy of
stakes like speech,
The language of play en seriousness, the face lustred, a
focus of skill
Upon the etching of light and the cask which carries
the soul of the child
At will, toward the end of mastr’y, willing forth the
gold which is uncontained in perpetum,
Unconfined like a tiger spirit, without raw film to
capture the fire
And its free essence which rides, burning,

Stok’d to vein, captor and captive, lover and beloved,
wave and rider,
Both peak and valley of the blow render, rent from
hands and transmissed,
Grounds for lightning.
Raging, caged matter and it makes canvases of bright
life,
Strewn across the sky and ground,
With eyes like the child god Aion,
For his eyes are down-cast, to see them there and to
live in the play-thing,
The being of beings, there rent and lent the eyes of the
child god, burning in the stars,
And the apotheses of his feeling, to make perfect
creation amidst the rent imperfect things,
All of which contain his fiery essence and charge and
yet move and shapeshift
Like shadows of the day, their timelessness bottled in
motion of time,
Their slippery sensate worlds, like each breast of water,
shivering thru the rushing river
Breaking fire in their haste, stallions agape,
To the wide open plain of being,
Unfolded, with their trials,
Hands against the fervor of the dawn.
Pres’t upon the beacon of light, their broad flowing
And essence and nature, seeming from beneath and
above them
Given and taken in equal measure, galloping great
distances and stopping beside oases
And gazing into the mind of the waters which question
and sustain them,
The flowers which bloom and remain them there, in
the prism of the mind

Aping this reality, from footfolds and footfalls which
echo in the prism of eternity.
To be given the playhall of the dawning mind, and the
ingenuity
Thru which words and rhythms speak their mind.
For the flow of the child’s play is endlessly attentive
and immersed
In the inmixed dawn essence of being, there perfect
and unfolding,
Making and unmaking in perfect symphony, their self
conscious play of unity
In creation and destruction make whole the movement
of flow
Which must travel and sparks life
With a glint and glimmer
A shining from within.

Doing the work of eternity’s toil,
Thy Being Eternity’s name;
Thus, going forth as the crater of existence, or comet,
Some rogue element that in becoming is unknown,
An exegesis of living
For to understand eternity as an ever changing fire
And thus to be burning differently is desire
And thus going all things into their essential form.
En Eternity’s shifting name
And the rearranged letters which form
Oceans of consciousness and sand; forests of driftwood
Which wander the plains of reality
Coming and going from sight, their folds and creases
Bendings in time, bendings in space, their staying
there, their remaining there
Is as such like a letter in the speech of the divine,
Breathing and flowing alphabets which flower and
expand in contact with the abyss,
That touch the nothing of new space and new time
And thus language the unknown in a speech
Which at once names the unknown and preserves the
unknown
In its unknown-ness.
For to go with eternity is to go with the whole of
oneself
Into the mysteries with the light of eternity’s gaze,
For the eternal takes itself in observation like eyes to
the trees
Or the bows of light which bend and make shape
And the letters of speech, which they themselves are
changeable
In light of the communication of the essential thing
Of which all visible things are representations.

The assuredness of the play, of that which is
expansiveness
In characterization, and the emergent language
Which seeks to caln the world of dawn, the infinite
expanse
Into man, or creation
Is like a chamber of mirrors, reflecting the eternal even
in the presentation of a make believe limitation,
For the imagination to craft a cave of colors, before the
sunlight
Or a pattern of images, before the infinite expanse of
the day
For such a true language would be a breaking; for such
a true language would be a silence,
An immortal stillness before the creation of all things;
Thus, the end of all creation.
For eternity’s toil to come, it must continue to arrive,
And the essence of eternity resides in time; that eternity
thus continues to be, unfolding,
In tithes of its nature, in sects of its form,
Like a great and ancient horizon, as it shifts across the
crease and border
Between the sky and the soil.
And yet, to observe infinity is a timeless act, one that
makes time an expanse,
Where it neither passes nor goes away, nor arrives,
And yet is destined to take new forms, to spring up
sprigs of mint, to the honeycombs of earth,
To the designations of the soil which are arrivals of
new faces and masks,
All of which speak eternity’s name and gesture
In each word and sound and work.
For to be eternity is to be the essence of the thing, the
bloodworking cosmos,

Thru which the essence works and becomes,
Grows and nurtures
And thus, the eternal is participatory, like a symphonic,
or an orchid
In that the blooming is a display of the speech of the
being,
Unbordered, undistinguished, in the essential rhythm
of the cosmos
Which resounds like a trumpet or an oboe
In the workings which are a workings together, in the
language of speech
In which each character is a character of destiny
Enfolded with a rhythm, a time, a signature, a sound
Thru which the divine workings is expressed;
Thus, a signature of individuality and uniqueness.
For each path is writhe with destiny, teeming with the
possibility of sound
Thru which the infinite may express itself,
And is called thus.
To do the workings of the self is to be becoming the
infinite is all,
The eternal embodied, and the work and workings of
the eternal enmeshed
In one’s own very nature, to be the forests of time
Which are called to craft the fruits of their labor, lo, in
the bows of time
To swing from bow to bow, and thus craft musics in
their coming and going
In the strings of space, resound
Their workings and toils in the symphony of gladness
and play
Thru which being conducts and performs its art,
With each hand a brushstroke
Of infinity