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.

The face on the winning card.
A thin and worn facade
he doesn't know which side he is on
and his words fail to cover the abyss of his haggard soul
his speech ragged like a holy man on laxatives
no monolith, nothing to stand for,

his black soiled robes were always and only blue, now, in the new light

Timeless land, 
how we have betrayed you, yet
committed to our crime,
my rhyme omitted

The bell of our voices lost to the sound of trees
cut down,

Rings on, like new,
A human heritage of voices
join with every seeker, every Archimedes,

Every prophet, there is no difference.
 
Our sound, Sheltered by the thundering mountain, in the distance
The mists over the hills carry on, conspiring about the divine
To those forest-wandering madmen, 
rejected for their crippling lack of everything
that is not song.

These songs so quiet
drowned in a whispering spring

(for Patrick Modolo)

the soul of nobody
The soul of that wasted nomad who troubles with harsh hungry silence 
and sharp gaze like a star's one-pointedness

cold and pitiless, A number of demons
Gather like qualities of an apple
This gathering, why, by what force,
without it there is nothing but ghosts

no truth-juice

only the cold hungry claw that cuts
the body of our thoughts
grasping, groping, lost in a green paradise
the will-to-perfection that destroys

And.. And...

And how the nouns are all Sun, Earth, Rain, and Air,
yet when blooming
where is the emptiness of a flower?

In an alternate universe I lost my way

in sizzling neon lights.        they leave ghosts in my eyes.
The soothing burn of whisky.

feminine silhouettes cast by burning "open" signs,         my mind dies little deaths.   
they walk in reckless trance. 
A human lumbering, lurching towards another's flesh 

The uglier I get, the more beautiful everyone else becomes.

Oh Death, the seductress! 
She will feel the sting in a feather—
penned tattoo 

of a thin moon.

Fight me; O Death
I belong to combat.


lust is a leprosy; we hold our wretched skin to the fire for some comfort in pain. 
There is worse than pain, dear one. 

caught in the mind's cobwebs 
where pain becomes a helper

Come to me, lost soul, 
For I am the absence of truth, and I will hold you.

The mind needs truth like the body needs medicine.  

my tongue           a runway           for flies

she is so light the sun shines through her
brown sunned body, flight of a dancer
The sun behind her, wherever she turns
lifted, stretching, the grace of a mothering curve
this blazing heart, righteous, from the rites of womanhood, 
she emerges from the fires of her austerity
branded in my eye

We find ourselves in a place only for running away. our minds, caught in a flood, leap for the shore, even as the body is pulled in. Who will raise the call, who will speak the dead shadows and make them live?

This is the prophecy

There is a low woman in the hospital who cleans the sick. She washes vagina’s for a living. And oh holy of holys, she does a better job than you could do yourself. The cleanliness, the godliness that she achieves in this life…

she will one day be a god in her own right. She will unfold from a flower and be ordained in the Temple of the Sky.

Her name will mean ‘friend.’  It is the last of the Buddha’s names.

said already and repeated, 
"the flag of truth must be destroyed to see the truth for yourself."

The Word was not the beginning

You were flung on reality, played like the winning card.

The Ace of cups uses our souls to wash the sins of wealthy donors

The only card left in our hand
The Wheel of Sympathy
is made a whirling cesspool
"accepting bodies" says the Sign
As if there was only one Sign and the Wise ones say
"Follow the signs" but the signs are everywhere, hitting me over the head like
"save a dollar, buy a coffee" strong enough to defend my own weakness

The Marketplace of Salvation
There was something before these words,
Something before the first word,
Something Fierce and Metallic, brandished 

The old knowledge was transmitted from mouth to ear

Older knowledge was transmitted from breast to babe.
The biology of knowledge, 
The woman silently transmits more than can ever be thrown across cosmic chasms. DNA Flung like wordless signs 

The light of those ancestral eyes held an empty landscape with no line.

the womb is the original space, giving birth to the mind

and there is no difference between mind and womb.

Now

Milk mongers selling scientific messianic molecules 
fit in the brain like our young men fit in sex robots. 

compared to the old ways 
Science is not a scalpel, 
it is a bludgeon.