There through the arch – the way light pours in. the Lord is as the sun, the Spirit as moon. Those green rolling hills beyond, where peace is cotton wool resting. The shepherds walking, doing their duty, talking to the trees. They make homes anywhere, for nature is a many roomed temple. The wind will be the soft hand which guides. Pulls back draperies and with the sun welcomes intimate space. Shows pretty furniture, pink chairs tall, and chandeliers, this olden soil. Feeling other worlds beneath feet. Reaching into the green pasture, a single tree as grass, pulled up from the forest where little bugs are birds, people are gods. And with a thin tree, a whistle for the world. A new sound for the greater song.
II
The sun’s coming up now. It’s over – all the moon flowers are closing their aroma doors. Everybody shifts a bit in their skin. Beneath the warm bubble film a seer plays at final wake – drowns and is rising perception, all-inclusive are new eyes. Space an ever expanse homely inhabited always. A mockingbird drinks tandem the necessary water. A mosaic floating. A fountain temple gushing time. And the divine stopping for no reason in particular.
O the stopping, what madness. The head in hands curl sound in scream. Where is the peace? The carrying? Why must I be played with a will for wonder when the extent of my body be so limited. These days drying fast as acrylic. The loose joy of oil slipping and I feel I’m losing a lung. The roots got tangled. Surfaced yellow and overgrown with blue to demand green. Landscapes of smoke – a mist settling before all you can, now could see. And is it still there? Is it something you’ve done to upset the flow? Some passage block of ego? And if so how do I dispel?
These are the torments I feel. The eyes of the future are heavy. They want so. And not knowing what. I want the empty. A clearing pure pasture. A fountain of pure feeling. Yes, the longings beyond the frail skin.
So, it feels like a shift beneath skin. It’s becoming increasingly hard to breathe, my body against me. Where is the most lovely tongue, that I may play a song of sorrow on it?
There is no harmony. Only a deep discordance concordant in the chambers of sense. I’ve walked there, been led by the land of a king, for a peripheral movement. The web of walkways, doors as apparitions, always open for losing sense of space. The floor is a pool of mist – a sea of green stained glass. I’m barefoot and cold. I run my hand along the walls, reading the language of the unknown, and in it – I think a slight congruence. The weight of creation is a deep voice, booming and heavier than body, echoing in these corridors.
One evening of purple – that is how the eyes enlargen and do we finally stop trying to make sense of it all. Simply enjoy the curves of space inner and outer. How behind one is another and infinitude
III
Seven scorpions on a windshield and a drive orange in the desert. Following your day nap do write a sonnet for they know what it means. That chandelier of people and the enlightened speaker. The song stretched over muslin wall of flesh. Standing before it all, laying down a long shadow, feeling in eyes the vein pulsate in pink. A soft slow movement bare and naked. For any particular – not so. Only the wish to share once in a while to one who can feel beyond body. Who beneath the pulsating blood of being is a soul like another over the top and inhale between pines / I remember that from childhood -
How a single white cloth laid as a blanket over and in the arms of the trees. Snug and together they all had a quiet sleep. Then when the wind carried in the voice of morning they awoke to do their duty of stare – and in doing so shook. Shook off the white blanket naked and offered all the fallen colors a cold cover.
IV
I remember the early hour mornings in the chapel – in the outside. I’d stand, acting to nature, and watch. Watch as grass swirled in the verdure. Today it swirls still – for all the little bugs watching. Wind carrying leaves of grass and petal’d color into the sun.
Are the ducks dead, or have they simply ruffled their feathers for a deep sleep? To my 3am wake following for a deep sleep? For in the rise – be thankful not only for life, but this life. The hours cradled in atmosphere, the time here at the lake. Where when being alone is still water. An open field of water to walk freely, not to disturb, not to shake the silence. Only quietly absorbing sense of nature and growing in newness.
But here there is always another. Has anyone known true solitude? And if they did we’d never know. They’d sow, rise, and fall with the trees in the woods. Then today ducks, two black with white beaks, small and soft, share company. The scribble sounds of pen on paper warbled the water and beckoned their come. That and the incessant buzz of a fly – in my head and not around. A small fissure in sight, slinking right out of sight. Though there on the water I can rest my eyes – the stillness ripple of nature’s solitude. Spirits in wind dragging their toes, their pasts over the top of the water.
A call, and an Indian man joins me. Grass in his pockets layering years as clothes for heat. Says in a year it’ll be the 20’s. We enter a ferris wheel called time and turned dependent the way we thought. He had us pull back, and I forward. All was still the same we saw. Nature ran its course. The wind blew. The trees still bulbous, only there were fewer. A fish jumped in the lake water and I wrote about it. It wasn’t long till waters settled again – till I was alone again.
V
I heard of days of candy. Some stupidly positive sanguine whisper of a premonition. A person, lollipop in hand beneath cotton candy sunset tree. A sign so wooden and pointed by their right side. I stared and said nothing – walked another path.
Lily pads as shoes. Koi’s gurgling magic in the pond beside the garden grove. Any and every plant you can think of – it’s there. Planted just this month with a cute little sign telling of future grandeur – only it’s a name. And any time you look you will, like water skeeters, skip and settle for stagnation. That is unless that plant on which we thought is accounted both as nature in its being there presently, and for the natural growing. The colors, the green, the grandeur now – yes it is quite wonderful. Think the growth up from the deep rooted sweet soil unknown –that from seed to quite presently here. That is natural. However unnatural.
Though woe is man – always thinking to express and impress upon. For the flowers it is never so. The natural – it is a state of mind – here I am sower and sown, deepest and surfaced. I worship Yahweh. Supreme creator. I say let the worship song play.
VI
People steep further to that which they are. And we all are. Warmth is a slow welcoming death to the laxidaisy in the flower petal’d eyes of the mad. They’re sad and sobbing alone in the room. That spot on the bedroom floor. Lay down. It’s part of the process I suppose. Posed child saw flesh flutter incessant. Little white clouds as emblems of the days, caught in a pink fingernail sky. The skin. The sound of canvas on wall and mounted big and beautiful – a chandelier of fanaticism – a woman, bald and fetal. Rocking to the sound. Eyes glazed on that long shadow. For standing in is cold and for a photograph behind smoke filled berry bushes – pluck one, why not.
Beneath those immortal purple trees – apes strung out and supine. Eyes soft against the web of golden green, mortal brown, sienna’s strung above. Their perception rising. Finding a new flow in human need. Eat, sleep, speak at least a hundred years beyond death.
VII
The artist’s reality is that of body outside. When the deep hum of the city draws melancholy. But leaves which skip in the wind time are intermittent joy. The table of green beneath beige page and onto ring and pen. Hands stained blue and red of oil pink on the fringes of denim coat. A feeling of warmth from the sliding of a hand across the page. The comfort, an inlay of material opening doors for incorporeal touch.
On my arrival, and before my revival of coffee for now, another, a child sat at my place. This green table an earthen playground, she plucked succulents which often touch my head soft in back and forth bouts of swayings. She looked like me – and we shared smiles, not for another, but for our joys in green.
For wearing denim winter I do forgive the cold – I do – I must. There’s beauty in the thin blue wash feeling it brings. Some hours the shaking imperial, the twitching inspiration – a tension in haystacks in winter. On the green table a bringing forth out the skinny unknown. Still I sleep less, eat enough, layer my most fashionable paints and clothe my thoughts in the honesty of outside. So then creation abounds and solitude satisfies all but warmth.
I take direction from the trees, their years spent wholeheartedly on a single direction, a firm branch, they will upwards always. When the modern man cuts their arms they grow still. Even through the city strung lights around the trunk there is an opener eminence radiating. Writhing for those who have heard. Heard hunger and despair are fair foods for an ascetic artist. Arms wrapped round vines, verdant glory – this new weather is looser and heavier altogether. And just out of her curiosity? Not only for warmth was why.
VIII
My body is loose, naked and pink with heat in the night now. The moon’s been elusive, so sorrowful are distant friends. What wonder awaits our solitude’s meeting again. The stories she will tell and the paintings I will show. A good show indeed. If only now were all, and it seems so. I retraced my stargazer steps, thought I might still be dreaming, but got moving any way. A soft penetration of steam curled off my body and wrapped itself into cold space. The long clouds grew a little longer, the milk galaxy a little wetter.
I’m thinking now of sleep marks on your face. A goddess, draped in white by lake water. Asleep and all the more beautiful for it. The sun behind me, your rest in the cool of my blue shadow. Eyes as veils, slowly opening, revealing wonder. The circles of lifetimes and recurring dreams of life and death – still a ring around your eyes.
I do believe my hand running the course of that midnight river and reflections thereupon will lead to a great ocean. One where drowning is perfectly permissible and scents of incense always carry the air.
IX
To die writing. To die with love abounding. What a pleasantry. Satisfaction for a sanguine mind left in color. Follow the fill of time and final dance on the brink. The final wake.
My voice as embers – rising, carried in the wind to dance with stars in the stratosphere and so soon be swallowed by the sky. They tied a man to a mountain for this. For fire on the head. Incantations, potions, whispers beautiful in the dark. Always a face in there. Seen them everywhere watching, hoping still lest someone less careful see. It’s a subtle, soft spoken presence and its magnificence echoes as choirs in canyons. For losing subject and imparting any of one’s own still will listen, - a lavish orchestra of all of it.
selah
Selah forward. LORD I am your servant. Do what you will, in loving intention always, will always. I, the vessel of sheep, the pasture child, led chosen in joy by the stick of language – your pen. There in your pasture I am. Praising in breathe of I am. Yahweh the way. The praise in namer’s say.
selah
A shepherd walks, bridled his tongue. Inside a clergy, sipping coffee and singing so un-harmonic hymns. Up on a hill, he is alone. See the stretches of green like a slow ocean waving every thousand years or so. Valleys crashing onto the firmament, sending splashes of sunset, trees, and a haze into the air. Only then to be absorbed and fall fortunate a time slip. – He has a garden, this writer does. Some odd feet below his mouth, mammoth sunflowers reach tall, curl slightly at the top, and talk to one another. The sun a lovely host. With his paint stained hands he wipes fog from the window – to hold a candle on account of listening in, leaning in on the presently here.
A woman and baby child before him, his silent staff writing.
-Do you see the trees?
-The pretty flowers?
-What do you think of that?
-A smile
And later, shepherd still shepherding, presently there another woman berated another baby child for crying. She yelled and hit
-You better stop your crying or I’ll give you a real reason to cry.
-Tears
A hug was all the baby child wanted. A song in the key of these flowers. Some small recognition of the miracle behind these tears, behind this baby child’s eye.
X
So a softness laid over the countryside. I’d say it was snow, though its simply not so. It’s never snowed here. I often am apt to pray for rain the way the Hopis do. Their corn and my page. Their lifted fields, and song – more than a mere molecular conversation – a sun song for nature’s newness. And this – how could it be any different. Doing the duty – that of the sower and singer. Prosperity and praise. To eat for out and to eat for in. to let this food be a blessing to the body, a lifting of the Spirit. That energy and life may be given for glory of the golden Creator.
XI
On account of the cold the gold coated fans no longer spin, nothing for a cyclical thought to ride. No brass music indoor for the wind chime either, or that all sound has reduced to a soft hum. A decent blue floating slightly in and over deep green. So still I’ll try my pen against the brass air catcher so I can simultaneously watch the wind in word and listen to its chime. This day and this time too uncertainly too comfortable. I’m deep in the flow, as even those I still hardly know, will say and thankful for old friends, with grace. The most compatible friend I’ve found yet is an easy woman dressed in beige. I’m a forest man, an old boy in corduroy, licking lips and giggling harmonic to scribble sounds. And all around! All is beauty all around!
Shimmer the rolling hills. Purple curls sent spinning – for something ‘not physically possible.’ Possible is. Look the delicate, the too star emergence strung round a wrist like benedict. One, two, ten and another hung the neck. Can you feel the mental call? It’s that of love and please return. Your spirit soars stargazer. Throne in sea and sky. The deepest and highest, how wondrous and yes often too much to bear for just one soul. Yes, how great a gift for this life. Then some time ago one asked for the hour and as those passed, then the day, and month, and year all this unknown now – for which life is this?
XII
Her dad died homeless – picking jewels. Her dad. Her brother works harder than any other. She has the mentality, for she’s heard and stroke diamond cut fruit. Only a couple days, a minute, apart. Tore space and sweet potatoes on the kitchen table, just climb over the car and get it. It is thanksgiving, coming crystals, her meal the night before, Chinese and what she prayed for. A kinetic southern pop to her tongue, drooling contentment for fear of worth living. ‘Let it try, do a better, extra money, everybody got it, catch the bus reflection’. In hot tea her above, don’t ruminate a premonition. It’s thanks for stories. Her eyes dead into the rising steam in tea. Her mouth slapping decadence about. Her eyes nothingness. Her thin bone black hands scratching her face.
So cyclical recurrence beckons, breathe honesty. Pen finger cloud curl. Drip death and hospital. Good will upon the page now. Jean and on here. Poet drunk. Love. God. Lips. Blood red all and tall. Outside what is this. The sound hurts. Gone rewound and dried up. Needs life fortunate. I’m depart any day now or. Lifetimes like minutes skip and turn off the song. Quiet. Scratch peace on beige. Women o woe. Wisteria and pink pond skies reflect in. The city, a grand mistake is all. A way being not needed but sold necessity.
No need for their image. Walk the sunset, a minds foreign town. Smelt sea, saw clouds in a baby blue bathroom, thought of man and woman in a large room. Faceless – it’s alright that way. The going away and past life lovers. Flickering symbols on the dash. Dropping back behind a bush, necks sore from all this sudden seeing. Mouth sore from not speaking, cheeks sleeping. Apocalypse and howl. You’ll never write another like it –the moon fell into the ocean.
He needs a mess. Sorrow and joy for thanks in all. The, that which learns by Spirit sense. Less nonsense, drive the boy’s death in brink. Do you dance the thing and point and smile to the future friends? Hope its quelling. Couldn’t let you see me, hear the crowd do it along, throw color in cathedrals – live for love of Yahweh alone is all and the only endeavor. Help for weak is I and suicide is a roach on the road. I’ll do the dance into the fog, face first for flowers. So sweet a smell is lover on and for lover alone. Reciprocity you see. Light like air through cracked stained glass window. Hands riding the wind. Smile.
The lines I see are growing longer. I can see all but the point where pen touched paper. Archival ink in no age, not anything but the depth. The tree, their webbed fingers still each individually stroke the air in a one by one fair flow. They are red and green. The lake water I wish was closer. So still and my shaking cold is not harmonic. The geese, beautiful masses of flight, long necks in orange shadow. Reflection for fear filled the air and under was unknown. Water drew out in every direction, wings hit water, gurgling the only sound before stillness again.
XIII
O I am a languished language maker. Strewn out on carpet to watch it swirl.
Throwing thoughts to the whirlpool – that of honest desire to be read and felt. A small scream drowned out. A walkway curling right to left to right again, half the way and infinite deep. I reached there and held a hand, hold time to it. That life must abound and throats call purple.
Of all that’s made. When thought serves as rain. The clouds can’t hold onto another. Split the hand the head, unsound. Resurge vernacular drip down, man was a well watching me with this decadence. Stares down an aisle. A candelabra hung from a spinning ceiling fan. As tall as the roof, only slightly not so. Smell as sensation growing. So all these seeds and what soil? What harvest?
Too expensive and mutilated fruit. Not but happy slipped back before. My memory lost and somewhere happy. I hope is so at least. That they don’t miss it. Conversation now and not and. Not but. Not language, but symbols of sound.
Eyelids a landscape the sun opens upon. That I wish above a year long. Quilted red coat. A shadow of hair, beanie drugged and green green green grass, and broken lines. Smoke outside with let it be. Cold is a clammy hold. It’s okay because I love it anyhow. The fire light on the night. All about life and love and holy, even in dreadful remembrance. Soft pupils bleed triangle – hierarchal gallows the studious bodies sit upside down on.
Unsound I drew, I drew, I had drawings of them all. Rested my head on wrist, flicked the years off like mad flies. Seven hundred and seventy seven lives. Brother you hear. Dream and keep speaking in sleep. And which is this - a cognoscente’s entanglement. A heaven sent blues. A boy broken daily on bedroom floor for the floor insanic growth. Daisy bush, daisy bush. Save it and look before all the sorry tells of sadness missed. The uprooting’s, roots bringing in two. Undergrowth, undergrowth, two figures purple and tall. Dreams too organic to tell. And I wrote and told anyhow. Wrote for an awakening in the earth. Called all the plants and people to rise. What life is it?
XIV
Fell asleep to the pen still uncapped before me, still circling on some discordant meaning – ah yes! That of the pens uncapping and purpose for the first. Were any thought, star-strung sound and tongue better, more well off than another I’d call the city – firmament for a monopoly. So then, evidently not being the case – humbly I admit I am but a scrapper – a homeless picking jewels. The sound of soil you hear concordant – that is you. I am you. Written in a falling folded and kind white slip of paper. Found under the pillow of a geisha girl, suburbia slim, golden nature newness, this kid o color and sound – time rewound – I am you. I love you. How selfless for universality. A common principle. And the nation unknown rode a white horse – a white horse called love – rode him right into sun and sea.
This familiar haunt. Often apt in yore of becoming, the sons of rapture – found here. For they are the foremost, idyllic sensations in wind, water current, in color shudder for soft stroke. Count in their fingers, the streams floating in cathedral. Their eyes an incandescence, looking up from humility dove, there the irises. Memrise the Westwind expression. The wind’s soft hand on cheek.
Our blush sunrise, play of light. Witness the bolero, dance to nature newness lexicon. Enter her wholly, for wish to give not one but impression. In plain air her gaze is.
No caw and weak predecessor, could call golden the fright found in this day’s empty. The only steps – that of green lift and honeycombs. See the people alive, ever lonely, and know none – for all in one and learn of self. It’s a day’s walk lonesome, fixed on pasture and crow is all. Embrace the formidable voices in heads, that may be self. So see what, and power of projection. Learn to know and hug, little kiss wouldn’t hurt, and let die. What remains is golden and sappy.
In autumn the blonde girls comb their hair. What departs the pines is nothing but a bird fall, a slow slip and air flutter down. Green, yellow patch grass an old unclean and comfortable pillow. The Spaniards ride carrousels north, cigars in books and smells of hotel pool water. The starry night in loose, ripple movement. Do they have class? Do they speak – left for a week he did, said solitude needed talking to, paint was wet, can’t let that dry. Women too, that’s the noise, ah the snow for mountaintop, and tip off – Spanish.
When shadows call from corners, there’s love, light in ‘how you doing?’ the people ought, rationally ask, were the moon made of cheese – would stanly wrought horror and visual trips. When hands on head, rested cheek – background sound (calming train in slumber, passing woman flaunting, flamingos and gas stations, helicopter apple paranoia, black and white, 17). Have mercy. Forevermore.
I am death dressed in pink. An old man, hands faced, legs crossed. Soft smoke billows in jazz. The studio on cloud. Escape the thinnest blue for beige. I’m a valley rising sorrow. Pen hung high, cut evermore for the ill hill. Elegy wrought the horse, kicked Chicago and out the window. Teacher o teacher – learn to learn. Ought together be best living - Don’t miss it – they have. Plasticity for the new age. Shorelines and moonlight. Hand hold that blood separation. Lovers outlook, crag and rock, yellow and blue, sickly green sky and that’s why.
-How you doing?
On the roof with poetry is all. Finding how deep currents sink. How strung apart
black and white were. But listen stoge smoking, rock hopping, pocket popping, pill stopping sleeping modern they. I’m the inventor of color apart theory, and try you will studious. Sleep none for expectation unreal. Listen – you’re a genius and just keep working, finding what words and the way you flow. Do it anyhow, that’s an alright way.
XV
Water of the waterfall. Birds flutter into the blue. Sleep is a cleaning potion for the sorry people. Those who go to read feel miraculously they pure unreal. Less the sorry ones sound a horn, choose the sword as a second evil and laugh hysterically – for that one is decisively crazy and claims not to be – to be different. Different though is the ego. Compatible and congruous themselves to coalesce in Yahweh’s ocean of being.
Water of the waterfall. Love like torrents of ran in the night. Waking once and one and people watch, giggle, smile, say something. Hands nearly touch. O Lord you listen for sorrow. The ones into the deep – there where your wonders hidden miraculous artistry. Where vision is wine and we walk lonesome hands, drunk. Love a play of color. Weighted ones crushed like grapes, so call out for you. And you, you are Lord ever merciful – you listen and in perfect love add to the threshold of wine. Blood love stained eyes and lips and hands all around. What a wondrous sight lifted with yellow ease.
Clearly this isn’t – all that – there is. Behind every wind, direction, and drapery swell is a silk hand running smooth. In every dove pink trembled eye, mockingbirds stuck in cages, bugs behind glass – there was an initial endeavor. Now all is done in love. Simply nature, pure devotion, creation song. I’m sure, lexicon written by grass on hand in sleep – under white rain – faces in fires. My memory, a head rested on another. The days offer themselves fully for genius. No excuse and work, but in opening will like wind threw open the door.
XVI
Ever since what is dream dropped fluid in reality – the days – on knees and wet lips say, come set a spell. See when he found he could be anything – o that’s when the poesy spoke. The tumultuous pole people stood awry. Slipping in and out vision. In passing, color trapping, shoulder bell ringing, quick jerk of glory.
O sun of washing away a night’s weeping. Through the house inside (ring, ring ring ring) doors slamming incessant, synagogues strung from ceilings. Women feeling Jewish. Up for ferns, certain amounts of magic set aside. I’ll dip my toes as I can. Drown as I like. Listen in and relay with a whistle of wisteria.
The nature of wind – on this day – is the most imminent instrument. On all I’ve seen. And questions on purpose – I pray there’s beauty on the sienna. Raw I’ve listened and written, apt to be by a voice curl round clocks and corner feeling. An embrace and welcome for felt before and in turn step into being. Being loved and existence is apart. What’s behind the well, in a woman’s gait, a child’s stare. Broken thought parted red. Woodgrain is too clear for the art of forest written on.
Any other too mechanical. Gypsies pink, orange, beige and lovely money wishers. Smoke, face at night, burnt out and what for. Clear isn’t this all. Nothing if not skipping. Love every day and sleep always. Too much time never alone. Sex on the water. Benedict inside his parent’s home. Snow banks of salt and stares. Women blonde hearing for the first time. Seeing the sky. Green forest ridden nevermore for her. Pyramid tipped on its side the work of man. Is pleasing pop. A visit on a visitor blue. Ocean pants true honey suckle. Curb sit and look – stars drift or we.
XVII
Man on a bike, thanks for smoking, thanks for letting me into that world. Puddle drop. Slip and slide out on the street. The feet of modern machinery a wilted rose beneath. Toes curl insanic in office city channel of law. Whisper – what’s he? O lets purchase the homeless. Under highways two thousand I’ve seen real love drift. Expose the sway of trees and watch the world on their knees – what’s he? Do do da doing the spirit boo bop. Baby pure and please moisturize the mad drop o purple Jew. Hill the 12 and string a soul for sorrow. Eleven and nine laughs let in the affection. The night glow on repetition under the bridge. Big wall and what – what’s. What’s the modern mantra to save? Down the hall – to stop. To serenade. To sing a new song – laugh. To invade with love – watch. The world immediate – drop.
Pause. Take a walk. Anywhere is where. I’ll see you.
Then speak frank. For the ‘there’s always gonna be something new’. That’s true for trees will be trees and have new leaves touched whistle by the same old breeze. They’re speaking – eternity. Put your pipes on me. Heaven and boat the sound evermore. Touched by a moment. Set foot slipping, birds looking trees talking. Only time will tell. The wake is what. If it isn’t anything but distance. Between events it’ll never stop. The breath.
The world – no the world through a glassed water. Cough and does there have to be an image. They’re not questions at all, anyhow how could anything but a rock in worship answer – speak the truth in being. A flower child.
XVIII
I feel I should apologize, I would if it were not for love. O madness. I am in love – the moon is a woman and I am in love of those days slipped away, threw back the blue blanket for the stars, and a deep closing. What is open is with me. The red moon I’ve hidden away, we have work we had to do. All the stargazers and moon people of the foregone night had rest, heavy and hot eyelids. Dream and reality as one. These hours apart are hard to tell. She’s with me, the mellifluous white one. In a forest bed she’s laid me down, dressed in gold and told of all she’s seen. Lovers by the lake. All the never before seen purple and blue trees. The snails on the run for joy follow rain. The artists on the brink. The magic of God unseen. The out of body. Her good glow saw it all – unhooked me of earth – a lavish kiss and slip into no-space – forever float ethereal.
Kokopelli loop the flute – back and bent, time and space – trees pass, trees pass. Body sprawled on the blue grass. O anything – O nothing. Childhood and another on a teeter totter. Day dips and skips, and night lips tu-too-do.
On the grapest melancholic normality in bare beauty I’ve been barefoot for experience of nothing. Stood the paints, beige brick walls, fiery orange flowers, and howls out the window. My hand leaving fingerprints on glass. Some space between, a limbo for wishing more, no, simply cognoscenti and content. A soft Rembrandt touch to an ideal.
XIX
-tell him we say hello?
That was what brother said, when speaking to tall drawn trees, faces circular over oracular heads. So slow turned their demeanor and trepid stare he told. One, two, and a third eye – and how good is it? Can it send colors spinning round and round on a wheel and stop for any which you feel? Or for dinosaurs in the living room?
Seen it all and that’s alright. It’s a window to purer days in adolescence. That a door to before birth and feeling up on existence. So then some simple and beautiful nothingness. A skip and her kiss, moment before moment evermore in God.
Here in terra-incognita – the sweet day sleep, the place apart and on which kings and stars meet. Bare feet and good company with trees, wind, Spirit. The days as foam from this inner ocean. Only ever aware and present for a not knowing. An eternal going.
People, gather – be careful, hug and take care. Do the thing! Come together for sake of departing self. Save lovers. Save the lovers. O let those lovers love. Their ground is slippery. Their children adored, rising suns, shine, bought, felt sometimes, and mist simply strung out on a white wall. Gather round! Look, look, and listen to truth – that which immediately impresses upon. There is a way which things are – and how lovely it is.
Now you can feel everything. Now I can write about anything. Now it gets interesting, yeah. Which way to walk when all the signs have yet to be made and the flutes play hunchback, knees bent and fertile. It’s anywhere, anyhow now. And I’m sure one day, sooner than I think, I’ll be slipping ink in ease, forming round a pine and find myself face to face with anything. Yeah and what then? Will there be snails? People surely are whispers in the wind not knowing, eyes in the strawberry trees glowing. It’ll be light, light out for holy touches, ever if it’s still dark out. Make sense? Nope. That’s how the magic works.
XX
Satisfied mind. By holding still, writing. Look up a woman by the water. Skies out from over some supine ocean – a goddess of blue sound. Sweet a reflection for this now willed now. Thank you everyone. Look this way. A portrait. Purloin my spirit. Black hair beauty. Pastel the night on my neck. Go into the motion, the flow, hold still so I can get your face right. Feel it all. Look at her. Let love and turtlenecks.
Brink polar Arizonan winter. Blue denim and lost the magic in some lost hate in a woman stuck looking at her phone. One and two and three lives lived in the time. The sleep I’ve felt now and given to the pen anything which anything holy has to tell.
That is all. The song of everyday everything flowing. And call upon the Lord for a hymnal winter. A wisp of love over water. Call upon the Lord. Lord you heal. Pull me hand in hand, flesh pink upon universal deepest color. How can I write of you Lord? To be holy as holy flesh filled in you can be. Lord speak soundly in me to you – to endeavor to do all in the love of you only. Lord I call upon you. Awaken the inner sense, I am present for goodness Lord. Dear Lord. Depart me of the people’s machinery in money and manipulation. Lord envelop me in love. I am present for goodness. For the endeavor in love to you, toward you, and let me find you, I see you in the beige page, I let the Love overflow for the people.
XXI
Pine needle. Sage. A fire forged in the recess O firmament. Now words, O life in the luster, nothing if not for a source by which bodies may dance. Purify, purify. Your face Yahweh in the fire, walking love for bare feet, the ever work and won’t there be resolution? Lord wont there be resolution? An incessant beauty for this creation. Like rain dance enliven talk with the place of fire rise and star pop. That door o glass wind shut goodbye and time to work evermore. For love.
Lord I long to love you wholly. Let me, your servant never go from your presence. There’s a separation except for when with pen. Necessary as green will I write for this. Lord leak love of clouds and with the same whisper enlighten the spaces between pen and page and me. I ask now for a unity. Something which already is, and if not for the hallways word walk lonesome. Harrow harrow speak into the now. Lord o lord I am ready to be made ready – to absorb love in fullness. Presence in eternity – to float in as a reflection of a star sea of breath. Crawling childlike for pink and white – the night a puddle in the day. The love forth. And eternity.