Does not a form
of vision bait this hour
while frilled sharks of sleep
slide in between impaired
and deafened ears,
feeding on monsoons of dreams
I am here
breathing in this night of spring
on darkened curb below the plumes
of foliage that offer paper lanterns
of cavalcading lilac-whites,
their fragrant light accompanies
my sack of lonely bones tonight
as I inspect these trees
against that moon,
sit in this obscured
outsider’s room with quiet houses
the passing pantomime,
and bricked around the slumber
of their occupants,
playing those lickspittle tricks
of a sober, fixed
are not we all canaries caged
and sent down coal-black shafts
lit with fits of monkeyshine,
blinded by the slighted hand,
waged and mortgaged
by the soundness
of illusions we expand.
The space between myself and open sky
is anise-velvet curiosity
It saturates the welkin, wonders why
those pensile moons of pearled monstrosity
were drawn to join the deco-disks of Saturn
while planets spun, pontificating courses.
Did Newton’s laws of force dictate their patterns;
or random fate what heaven reinforces?
Revolving slowly, is my nature turned,
magnetically, incredibly attracted,
unable to decipher or discern
if gravity or chance has me distracted.
Oysters orbit lunar satellites;
I am clasping thoughts of you tonight.
Regards to all those solitary places
where unaccompanied, some fear to stroll,
located in a wasteland that erases,
then redefines and purifies the soul.
A beating muscle somewhere in the middle
of wilderness is sensed before its seen,
there ‘found’ and ‘lost’ united, form a riddle
and pinnacle inverts into ravine.
Where time is only relative to season,
dimensions shared by life and death converge,
recombinant, these patterns beyond reason
adapt spontaneously and emerge.
A frequent misconception that forsaken,
within this void, there wander the forlorn.
Clear glimpses of existence are mistaken
for dirges sung by landscapes left to mourn
Abeyant limbs stab the ides
with a flimsy shade,
Parked buds tumefy,
eddied in the tepid jetstream.
stand selfishly straight
and ringnecked on a pond island.
Aviary music swells
beyond its clipped wings; blankets of feathers
break over pimpled birdflesh
in recurrent waves.
Hands of internal clocks sink
to a depth of the tallest hour,
while an unconscious violet
rises with a split clitoral petal.
Snow is razored by the sun
into clean shaven slopes
and intermittent springs
rupture the ground
how winters lie.
I spent the anniversary of our
goodbye alone upon a shore with half-
moon rocks. A piece of lightning in a jar
or afternoon trapped in a photograph
could never give off light so cotton-clean
as tumbled feldspar can. How much like fruit,
or scattered ostrich eggs they are. The green
soft moss grew over some. The sluggish roots
of Ponderosa Pines had grown around
a few. Beyond a sandbar’s naked shoulder,
the place we spent all day just looking down
the river. Partly buried, there’s a boulder
we rolled together, struggling through the sand;
the windbreak for a fire we had planned.
Apricot trees have moved
into their bursting arc
with an expressive excitement,
assuming a weightlessness
unconscious as desire.
They are grounded clouds
levitating in yards and parkways;
opening guilelessly in laundered
fists of the fugitive hour.
Our eyes helplessly flock
to the elevated
lamb’s wool displays,
are bees drawn to a reflection
of love’s exquisite brevity.
Possessing not the insight found in time,
that wraps a journey unaware, and claps
inaudibly in cadence, fractal rhymes.
We yawp, express this life in tattered scraps
of what we feel and map what seems so new,
but is it fresh or just repeated strolls;
the human gait still searching for a clue.
Insisting on rewriting former scrolls
of dead ideas there inked by bygone blooms
of us. Immersed and yoked with joy and pain,
the wonder of encounters since the womb,
our consciousness evovles beyond the brain.
Alive, unchaperoned and forth we go,
from youth through death recalling what we know.