bend a full window

Bend a full window; by the interest into turning, by the rose in climbing, by the patience in flying. Before and belong; keep the language outgoing, the bird songs in my ear, the tiny feet on the ceiling, in the wings and flowers, and the hairs and gasps for more love, around skylines and horizons, between fingertips and eyelids, in fears and intuitions.

Where is the multi-pitch rain shadow reflection, cross motored and quilt eared in metronic saturation and saturnic quatrains? Bleeding by so many different names, mouth to mouth in the shame, ashes and wind. Shining crevasse, which circle is it that is illuminated, and which has its own needs? Where does light end and vision begin? What is the time between a river and a canyon? What is the velocity of a line left by a shooting star? How many times does an idea change after it is expressed? How many times does it exist before then? Does the heart only squeeze blood, or is it more like a butterfly rippling the top of a pool? What is the distance between experience and impulse? Between inside and outside? Between warmth and cool? In these precious folds rolls your life, held in the hands of God. The hands that hold all and bestow all. Where you listen to your voice free of words. See with your eyes free of vision. Experience your touch free of sensation. Your heart free of love. Your mind free of thought. Your breath free of breathing.

The more stillness, the more each resonations fullness knows. Where does the stillness come from? Where do the resonations come/go from? Where am I now and where have I been? One candle lights a mist out on the desert, like a child in a dream, deeper into a fuzzy world. No one can find the hole in me ears where all the emptiness goes. Imperceptible winds, things I’ve overheard. Puts my mouth in a tender strange land, where I talk with other people’s secrets. Stories of original thunder asleep within the words. Myth of the mystics. A wind no one knows carries a force no one feels. We pretend in the name of today’s sunlight, there’s only a story to tell, and pay each other well, with every juicy hands oasis, out on the desert, like a child in a dream, deeper into the indefinite waves, lifting senescences from my scalp, no one can trace a single step in the iridescent webs. Only refuge in the sanallipsal zephyr all along the magnificent coast in the circles of completion, you can travel for days and not be any closer or be any further away. All of my comforts and dreams reveal you, play in the sweeping veil undulations of disappearance. All along the peaceful coast, no one can trace a single step only listen to the gentle invitations, the ripple in the world’s resonant field of pinpoint doorways, one candle lights a mist, to circles of completion. No one can trace a single step. Only a tremulous heart to mark the stars in the sailors’ eyes. Out on the desert, like a child in a dream. Listening for the wind that brought me here. In the river and times rushing to meet, the sand morning painting color, a broken moon residue of sounds wafted up through an orange and pink tree. Settling into eyes and pens, edges of clouds, and brow lines. Angeles in disguise. Each time I cut/turn the deck, I spread so much thinner, my spine leaps, the purple road tuning into noon peaks, the swing around the tree moves to the edge of each satellite balloon riding the canyon night wind. Deepen the shadows across the outline. The sea below the shoreline. Carry the dawn color seams and the sky’s round arm, smile over the end of time. The land of giants of time and of kissing. The river lives in a flame. A dance in a golden aura

I come to you

I come to you, with broken arms, and ask to be,
covered with, golden wings,
My heart is weak, its beat is faint,
it echoes with, all I leave unnamed,
all you gave, I could never arrange,
in any way,
so I sing again, and beg in silence,
if you would cover me, in quiet safety,
where forgiveness over powers resistance,
and love takes precedence over disbelief,
where I could rest, a million unshed tears,
I come to you, with deafened ears, and ask to hear,
a single note, in complete, harmony,
to at last behold, the direction, the four winds blow,
I come to you lost and old, without much,
of anything, and ask to lay, at your feet,
to give up, my ashes and residues, of blame held with shame,
and a fear which, even death, could not unveil,
I come to you, in the burning fever, of being washed,
in countless forms, on distant shores, without even two moments,
where I was sure, which was mine, and which was yours,
I come to you, in complete, secrecy, lost in,
the mirror of, endless pretense,
and ask to be, given new,
purpose.

the moon grows heavy

the moon grows heavy, the goddesess womb of nectar,
my eyes grow dim with a resonance in my heart,
seeds and storms under the curvature of wishes and guesses,
the contracts of waiting for the right moment,
the contact and reaching for the feeling that is somewhere jitterry aflight in the night with attempts to walk the fire of sympathy for myself,
bouncing heels and humps, buzzing heaps,
with enough layers to fill each shadow with warm threads of dancing whirlpool visions,
sleepy edge moon steepings,
all wrapped up with the nights crystal clear new names,
a backwards inscription that reads handle with care,
the moon grows heavy, the window to the heart chamber,
the weight of a monsoon curled up in green teaser affection.
undistance that survives speaking doorways in pouring sand,
who opens the drifting emptyings?
cliff dreamer rhyme dance,
a reach and a push from some friendly familiar forlorn force,
red shift of a thousand stars,
the moon grows heavy,
a box with no corners and all the ends forsaken,
time tests the emergence with a toast of blood and gland,
an autograph and an aftermath for safekeeping,
a sign that fits into the wind with a single utterance,
unclaimed delicate offerings in a pounding gaze,
a quiet place in a seething framework,
distinct syllables in expanses of twilight,
a shoreline on fire with no ocean,
a restitution with no savior,
a wind that blows through the mission and sets the floorboards on fire, temperature tripper,
my scalps wears thin, my eyes are freezeing cold,
there’s an old saying in the rafters, freed by the flames,
is it the voice of the buildings skeletons bones, or is the skeleton given a voice of its own,
no choice but to live as if everythings turning to gold,
I float higher and higher, my breath stretches thin, into a braille code,
too frail to read, my ears witness gods rareified lullaby,
a tearing apart of all that which is known through flesh and blood,
until that final indestructable thread is revealed, a single breath without inhale or exhale,
a silent turning that plays with my imagination until I take it for reality,
the moon grows heavy and turns to blood,
in the flashing circle the twisted membrane of my choice uncoils, and finally I can rest.
wrapped up in some warm warping whisper,
a gust of some gentle itching agitation,
outlandish drooling disturbance,
waiting for nothing in particular, passed up, passed around, passed over,
a light at the end of the tunnel spills around in kaleidoscopic daydreams,
pictures of freedoms and failures,
all so familiar I take in a deeper refuge, plead no contest in quiet laughter,
bathed and refreshed in the images of my alter ego so close at hand,
where my true longing rests, all the attempts to live up to demands of a demons needs,
my hands grasp at shadows,
my bed sheds ashes,
the dance restored to perfect harmony of understanding and acceptance.

the crucible screams

the crucible screams,
some sudden injustice, some unwarned returned untuned incidence behind the story of hopelessness, the resistance to pain and apathy,
I smiled, waiting,
I knew this day would come, but didn’t believe it,
only that to get here there are no roads,
and here words have no meaning
and eyes do not see
it was only a dream
it was exactly as it seemed
a couple of odd chances washed up on the shore of no return,


but curtains they don’t sleep
and what do they mean
everyone knows within knows the ghost
but for memories all hid differently
we all had the same reasons

and ask is the rain sad
does it tatoo itself to remind itself of the night
does it wait patiently and get tired of us eventually

with all our now emptyness and the endings left unsaid
silence and sympathy
risky enough
to hold hands
close enough to know the difference
just a couple of secrets washed up on the shore of immediacy of equality

she sleepwalks double zeros to get back home again
but can’t open the door
she doesn’t need those cherry blossoms anymore
just a couple of quiet wishes washed up on the shore of her insistence

no one notices them there in their loneliness
their time of usefulness is over,
so they try to hold back the tide without knowing
they’ll hold out for anything
for they can not lie
they have only their insides
and if I heard it once I’d listen a thousand times
a couple of distances washed up on the shore of never never