Postures

I was weaving fabrics from bottles

overlapping shadow hands, fingers not quite latticed

soft but getting stronger

tossing scraps in tiny piles

“a sign of terrible frustration”

had you yet arrived? towards a glorious, expanded well-being?

entranced by serious,

pitch black fire glances.

i know why you fled

and I suspect a dark posture,

pushing your ankles deep in mud.

crushing, morning heat

will burst inside your dented atmosphere

cyan breezes chill the cliff edges

closest to your seaside home.

and found myself in weathered arms.

shimmering, kissed with spots of yellowed glass--

eyes transfixed in disco moonlight.

golden, dusted shoes and faded curls

burned the sleep from our eyes.

my arms uplifted,

fingers brush through veins of clouds--

aged and wondrous

a form shrouded in dimly lit textiles,

woven intentionally

by my tropical hands.

physicality becoming clearer;

your form etched

rough, bent and gleaming-

in coral sand.

gilt roots

pulled by the tumult of your hurricane.

swirling in soot from the bosom of your womb.

said would not be I,

not I, 

not I. 

but it was I. 

I who knotted myself into your marble carved trapdoors-

scent of water brushing through intersecting roots.

facedown in clay

quicksand

whispering desert poems

air follicles 

bursting at the surface of your brunette-painted dark assumptions

sentences crack like dry bark

anchors drag me to deepest indigo sea

away

away

closest reddening eyes

for the shivering slash of dawn 

hits my transparent eyelids

a futuremelody

played backward

and not a trial heard for reckoning, 

yet.

rode newly furbished bicycles through darkened downtown streets

illuminated ice- 

dry, thick with wool.

steeped in dusty hues of mountain sunsets.

rapid annihilation of curated sparks

or mingling sentences;

wavelengths snapped at their seams

reveal dazzling individual crystals inside.

we ourselves are individuals.

shimmer 

and continue hovering.

scale stagnant waters; 

be risen up 

and completely anew.

Skychord

Hum of moon's light

Spirit rises to glistening 

silences.

Curving flowers are still blossoming 

petals burst to illuminate

pleasureform & 

simplicity

in spreading darkness;

explosions of grey, rosy brights.

Soulful 

midnight songs 

resonate.

Absorb into the rocks, atmosphere

until they burst,

skies shiver,

disseminate primordial, classical wisdoms;

explode into harmonious 

biological choir.

with outstretched flora

we view the world in stinging textures 

reveling 

at sun washed seas,

baritone mornings,

adagian sunsets--

whisper;

and knot your harnessed variables 

to the worship of an evergreen freedom.

silence awakes, and with it, a growing tension.

watching your eyes darken,

dialogues transform to striking match, float to embers, sparkling in a deepest well.

we view one fortress open up into another-

same thought wavelength, different resonance.

I compared you to a forest, years ago. 

thick with brush. dark, dense, with a slight scent of falling night.

rockets consume into flame.

retreat closer towards a watercolor floral.

black and white seems to be of importance.

stark contrasts and the extremity of feather nights.

dissipating my spirit into

emerald clouds, 

malachite evening

and the promise of continuous renewal, until finally,

transparency.

There are several close-knit statues---
facing Jerusalem.

Men bang on their knees
like drums.
Mud of the earth
shakes and dries to coal.

O how distinct conversations have awakened me.

O how pitch black desert hair
flips underwater, swims
in the dark of night.

O to see your laughing,
morning face.

Violins wail as ships flutter
to their ocean-floor deaths,
iron consuming iron.
And cosmic awakenings.
Rifts across the skies.

Indigo dreams.
Cotton stained navy
from Israel tears.

O Zion how your empire has
woken me up from a single
beauty, a son in early winter.

How one conversation,
How one single fact.

Has made everything shatter and rearrange.

A man exists, the same lineage as Christ.

Begging to be risen up

or sunk down into the ground. 

Twisting under coverlets, tucked inside coverlets.

Dreaming of black and white mannequins, inside city boutiques.

White on white coffeeshops.

A birthday planned in a Carolina, where clear water passes through logs, of variegated spaces.

A sudden retraction, waves pulled back

A tide unknotted

To reveal the skeleton sand beneath.

11:01

Crater fields harness energies from panels rippling overhead.
In our atom-stained womb.
And fireflies buzz in star formations above our canvas stretched wavelength voices.
In night, broken lintels crack throughout our minds---
Where is newness?
And where is the progress I was promised?
I just don't know.

Cathedral walls stained crimson
from your already glass-sculpted hands
I admit to you a sowing
freedom
but gather not the totality of half-petals
or half-fruits
or half-stalks
to assemble into a single machination
of a pulsing beauty.

I can't bleed enough for you to notice
the sores on my palms.
Regular undulations,
shuffled to indifferent names
with indifferent scents
and different motions of intimacy.

But by the power vested in me,
by the substrates of anatomic molecules
bound and shook together
I now pronounce you
tired, alone, wasted,
and knotted together with one who you will weave yourself into, and trip over,
until eternity ceases,
until the skies shriek

I am knotted to bouncing matter,
glued to fleshy soil
molded bronze pulled from the gelatinous earth,
now worn on my wrist.

I have yet to increase a gracefulness
or poise, or floating confidence,
but the light creeps up upon those in darkness
the snails, the tiniest ones who drain themselves
into empty vases to conceal,
and therefore reveal dazzling light.

This is all worn down to fingernail pigments,
and eight silences arise
to bring mansions of not my desire.
Enter into clear rhythms
blushing wind when holiness is acknowledged. I sprouted in closeness
in Grand Rapids, walking to a sunbathed lighthouse
moving closest to a highest heaven
Safety and connective tissue.
Distance and coldness.
I'm not great with vagueness or sleight of hand.

See your greatest movements in the flesh of the night
air dense, and cold.

Maybe spirits bleed into each other;
yours, crimson. mine: a pale gold.
Deforesting olive hearts.
Natural colorations
shimmering onto our fingertips.
Late September manifests itself
in qw-oj2infwka zxm,o3qwjaspLMZ<>
A heart, a fortress, an overbite.
Sitting with your father and still feeling nauseous.
Was a
dream
a
dream;
a dream.

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.