a dying star flares.
a shroud for emptied planets;
plasma sings in void.
our ark flees this photon dirge,
we pray it is not our own.
in distant skies
that shroud blooms brightly
-- promise of death
against the lethal light
a speck: the ark survived
on moonlit plain
a solitary door
-- invitation
the monolith stands stark;
its dimensions tell tales.
it's full of stars
moon and plain now gone
-- we are story
journey, without sojourn,
outward toward the within.
trees see our souls
mountains climb to our peaks
-- thoughts grow deep roots
deep-rooted is weightless;
naught is ubiquitous.
hidden in naught
we float free from our roots
-- become our paths
returning to the source
we find holy union.
we touch on
a plain, strange yet near
-- plant a door
today’s reason to keep living:
i thought of this six word story:
here’s a pen, let’s end this.
i survive, a blossom that heaves through winter
like a lonely citystate, an intemperate Sodom
waiting for God’s discrimination. i see it
foaling its own diminishment
when it had no right to colour
me. and i’m reminded of how i
start each morning with an ambered prayer
and end the darkness with a glass bullet
that i have taught how to dance.
still i spin an echo, a copy of
desolation, the weight of a single judgment. i see
the sun spill out of the dull morning. muted and mocked,
caged in iron weights that tug
the human mind instinctively seeks to find patterns and meaning in the vast torrent of information taken in by our senses during every waking moment. this is one of the reasons we have survived as a race (so far), as well as the source of experiences that some consider 'mystical'. not to say that all mystical experiences are just a by-product of our neurology, or that those that are should be deemed any less amazing or personally meaningful. when that still small voice speaks, listen; when epiphany dawns, awaken; when inspiration strikes, create...
Old shoe in a box
Dreams of asphalt and freedom
Looking for sole mate
I've tasted the richness and emptiness
Of forever,
Hacked my way through abstract forests,
Somehow it all made sense.
A scene gets deleted,
I'm looking out and watching myself
Walk backwards like a Hollywood ghoul:
I hear you say,
"Only hummingbirds can fly that way".
You are binding stars to everything,
You tell me it is sunlight catching on dust
Particles.
My self-taught body can utilise these fictions:
Irrational numbers which bend in arm-crooks,
Closing eye beams, who shrivel fjords
And shutter planets;
A wicked, living dissolution (without a will,
Without successors)
Defeats the twin which light has dreamed . . .
Holding her paintbrush
Yearning, the poet pauses
Poised, expecting colour
h
e
n
o
m
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n
o
Nothing can prepare
One artist for the painful
Grasp of another's artform
e
s
s
Only white canvas
Gleaming, dawn surrenders
Sleepless nights ending