python sky

A second hallelujah, for your celebratory wineskin.
there was no closing, but a masculine ridge;
a mass pierces the eternality of a suffering
which faintly glows in caverns
beneath the interiors of totalitarian starlings.
Fragrance is scheduled to appear and dissipate
once your basement factory shrivels
and we marvel at the sight!
I hiked three miles uphill, I split atoms in two.
Experiential jealousy;
all while framing your face with my acoustics.
Events occur in threes:
your house,
your home,
your spectral, magnifying heart.

caress:bereft

complementary artificial instructions,
a deluge
to fornicate a suppressed suffrage
on the ninth of july.
frightened glistenings and a hearth to warm a second form;
in Samaria.
woven hands clap together as one,
creating sparks between the wings of fireflies.
therefore came a textile bloom, of purples, baby pink
ostrich feathers bound into growth
banging bells together creates a lowered, less commercial harmonic polygamy.

forest-eyes

Find our hands entwined from the lattice of your spirit-breath.

Yes, winds are fresh
and they carry moisture from your sunkissed lips.
Fluttering up my heart.

I've found a beating beyond sunsets
and towers tumble to their
catacombs.
In deep summer, odorous heat.

I could. I could carry you, but there
has not a single beating drum to match
my previously harnessed words.
I am undressed, and angry.
Whisper to me the deliverance of nine sunsets.
I will hide you under burnished grass,
and when the sun beams on the attic door,
we have a single, pulsing hope.

For forgiveness and sparking illumination
when our feet hit the mud.
Shiver through horizontal spines.
Primordial filaments
which gather in fire-deserts;
the suffering of everlasting existence.
I am aware this stings your consciousness, makes you short of
breath.
Creates and weaves barriers between
your father and mother. But still they have owned and
replicated their histories. They have
admired the stars overhead and the
specific marks on your palms. Among them,
I will wave branches for your
arrival. There is nothing yet to be missed.

pleasure tension

Dreamt of giant pulsing veins,

underground.

and museums in Paris.

Whitewashed buildings, and a grey sky.

Blankets strewn, dark blue, woven at your feet.

And your arms to the clouds, pulling moisture from your hands.

It propelled, and expanded; a precipitation of pure white.

Falling across your face.

And therefore spun unraveled crumpled papers, into motion:

years achieved and yet I entered, held, and transformed.

I believe you increased, since I did. Generally, there are red skies.

Bones crumbling, and I am unaware of the implications of these dream sequences.

How they glimpse into rushing time.

I whispered that armies of chaos will stumble into their assigned places, underground.

All will then realize: silence is the most effective lullaby.

a raised line

Hand me your breath,

and your curled hair in mid-winter

down by the harbor,

and

I can see black shimmer through almost-opaque glass.

A single wavelength, and I find a second in

the orange sea.

And weave through me the lattice of your heart.

Stars descend,

and clap their molecules.

Noisily shatter,

create a fire-sky.

hurricane diptych

You were quivering, and it was August.
My feet tracing rippling water, in Muskegon,
and behind a coffeeshop, a history descends!
A remembrance- of forward moving motion,
and an exposure to a yellowing sun.
I can equate movements to rhythm,
but the flower I am waiting for has not yet descended
to your fragile, open hands.
-
Shouted loud to protect your name.
I find it hard to differentiate between structure and form.
Your redwood lips are tea-leaves,
my fingers graze over them, in the dark,
to find eternal meaning, or evidence of creation.

manuscript fog

Yesterday’s brilliant sunrise,
and today your heart turns to magma.
Glass melts to liquid, which hardens into stone.

I've fallen seventeen stories.
Woke up in a cathedral, in France,
under an in-situ ceiling.
Samuel said, “leave nothing to chance,” as if it were a person.
but no- it is a force: forks, twists, pulls together, and tugs apart, with no discernible reason.
Metal wedges against itself, but does not rupture.

The kaaba which we have been in worship to was fetched by Elijah,
bursting into a knot of neon flame.
A fragrant ascent, in Arabia.

Yesterday's brilliant menagerie
gives way to today’s cemetery
of desert-bones.

in woodlands, december

I have wrapped your arms in tin,
and with it, a certain eloquence.
He notices beauty, and I, transformative nature.
and terrific unholy material.
My inner spirit dwells in the natural environment;
I pulsate under stone bridges, in flight.
Body yearning to collide with spirit;
to exist in open landscape-
for knowledge to permeate its form.

Decay has no ideas of reference,
no planetary constraint.
It arrives and it flees,
from our re-opened eyes.

I fall below you in mid-morning,
as lightning stretches from your fingers to the sky.
And yes, if your mind extends and begins to wonder,
I do. I finally have my quiet satisfaction.

paper patterns

holland,

and we passed our brother's home.

in moonlight, demanding entrances.

paralleled yet reversed (in unconscious floating worlds)

cocoa at 9:30;

rushing to attend to discoveries.

until an orange light bursts beneath my skin,

i trail down mountain-turns, three sets of three:

gong/entrepreneurs/dirt

seven/cocoa/cold scarlet floors

delaware/tintinnabulation/cheek

pomegranate hands, be yet afraid,

and do be unnerved: Gaia is a dark, tumultuous place.

and deep red.

i found constellations painted on your back.

search for me in autumn wildernesses

my lips stained of wine

from the cellar of your heart!

clouds congeal into a single terrestrial object;

flowing newness and a hard-earned obscurity.

eternalities

falling between my fire-eyes.

but no distractions can pull us from our slumber

where music penetrates our physicalities

and herringbone patterns are etched into our skin.

evening west

we have wildflowers in our hair

and a spirit moves across the lake-

rebuilding skin;

hunters in July.

i have returned,

i have returned,

but not so fast, my hearth in daytime.

fires settling under our feet.

sky descends, and we turn new,

and maybe i have not sinned,

and maybe i have yet to become new!

a found magnificence

i yearn for a life of white

pleasures: renaissance art, cliffs, the human form? i am guilty. sleepers, or sleep.

from far away, one may be convinced we have wings.

"no, nothing. i gaze at the sea."

S, with ladders.

in a green labyrinth

follow you into water.

a crowd of people,

amazed by rectangular, floating magnifier

and afraid of confrontation

told him,

there are two ages, and we are moving into a third.

love

and love

and a third: love.