for a world of moments, all precarious,
Where castles tumble and rascals are kings.

Flight, when brambles claw for you,
when the mind crushes its thorns.

thorn of delusion

beat your breast, the beast that grows wings
has nothing but wilderness in mind.

thorn of fear

In a question about movement, wolves, when posed hypothetically,
cannot get half-way to you, always, always more than half the way away from you

Thorn of greed for beliefs:

Flight is a 4th dimension of tray tables and golden wings
too heavy to escape the danger.
golden scales weighed against a Heron’s feathers

and god, is only the king of thieves, grasping his crumbling towers, only to make room
in the sky for the moon.

a mind made free from the brambles of this world

When all the languages have converged into one
question of movement, and there is no answer.
abandon the road to the morning star,
there is nothing to lose that has not already been lost.

In the blizzard of the morning
the light cries
glistening streams of tears
down the face of the water.

A liquid sun multiplies
on the surface of the ocean
of stars.

There is something dancing there,
a whispering force, a space,
a promised land smaller
than the tiniest seed.

Meanwhile, in the world of Radiance,

stars fizzle out
before their midwife clouds.

everything is a cloud, you know.
electron clouds veil the center of the atom 
on my mind.

The lightning bug
(or do I mean lightning bolt?), but now it is too late—

the crack in the sky
was not so dramatic after all.

"there is a hole," says Godel to Winnie the Pooh, "an incompleteness."

find a hole, even in the encroaching mountains,
Tear the time-space continuum
a new ring of fire.

don’t look for belief.

every act of communication

is divine.

“Thanks to my invisible workshop partner, ChatGPT, for its attentive readings and provocations.”