Tuesday, January 25, 2011


A gong sounds
and I am gone: seeping into the sand.
half changed to glass.
But your snow melts in my hands; secretly placed on a reflection, during shifting sunlights
to hear evidence of physical life.
Silence overtakes my eyelids
in the deepest night.
in the dreams of a mothering form
who has no concern for my existence,
only the bones, angel, that you gave her, and the glittering skin that was cloned for her own.

to err

You have the whitest eyes.
She spoke of her trips to India,
where she sipped chai
and bathed in ancient Rivers.
but how does our landscape seem to an outsider?
I understand the movements
if migratory birds, yet
I don't comprehend their choices.

Come stay, little fawn
come, and lie down at your grave.
Your soul is thin,
as a tissue is thin
and it can be wrapped around
your quiet bed.

"Don't fade,"
1096 questions,
one for every day.

spinning seems to be of some significance.
also: springs.
But a desire for exploration took us to the Netherlands.
No, I hadn't planned
for it to be this way, but
I saw a photograph and my intentions quickly changed.

I also wrote about your hands.

re: presentation-fear

I slowly disassembled the weave I
anticipated the most revenue from,
and yet I mare a pattern I myself
would like
contrary to heavenly doctrine.
Could a dissatisfaction be more vibrant?
And I would associate with desert animals,
be they less intrusive.
Find me terrain where I can spin in circles,
or electromagnetic springs, which show feelings of longing.

I am slow and innumerable,
and tigers warm my feathered bed!

I still hold your teardrops in my weathered eyes.

A natural renewal
made my physicality twist,
have I yet chosen this fate?
Decided this, for a complex growth?
See that l won't fall, love.
But He is still the brightest light I see!

precise representation

Dreamt of two avalanches,
one after the other.
I am whispered to, but I
want something greater.
A surreal doctrine,
or immortal soul.
Not wood on wood, but gold on gold on gold.
An Emmanuel,
for a regretful earth to behold.

A turquoise freedom,
but what does my triumph cost?
A feather, floating in the wind; or a sovereign trip upstream,
to find your mother-soul.
But I am yet aching in the heart
of my one-ply ascender.
I want to wrap up my hope,
but my tower is far from here.
Chose letters for you,
each less important than the next.
My intuition isn't so good, now.
So find me walking in the clouds.
Whatever I have sacrificed here will be present in the next world,
and I hope my personality will
reflect your gospel of love.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Trembling Sons

We have a distinct night, and
harps swing, under our chests.
tomorrow: Previ, a city under the
to pack beads in my pocket,
beside a linen satchel. and it even
held your name!

Felt a moving tirade and ancient cities,
far from Trevino,
a powerful age, and terrestrial
manifestations of your physical

Naïveté reigns therefore,
and when you explain you are leaving for a
better city, I will let you be.

I cannot hope to wonder beside
honeybees; are your eyes as
distinct as I remember?
Late telegrams assigned to your namesake
sat at my doorstep, but I wondered
how close inhalation is to ------.

Shying from your tessellations, we
visited castles carved into rocks,
and I hope I will be somehow part
of it, in a coming history.

You see, the past is ours to claim,
as the messiah rises through infinity.
Wandering ought to be
accurately renamed 'destitution',
at least exploratory knowledge
found in petit sea anemones and
other such ideal lifeforms are existent.