Tuesday, July 31, 2012



Solitude and silence. The emptiness of the living moment
subsumed in the mundane middens of the soul, clam shells
and sheep bones, the shucked content of the heart
cherished again as the afterlife of the evidence
I once lived here along with everyone else.

Before I write, this archaeological seance I hold with myself,
this ingathering of everyone I’ve ever been
flowing back into me where the mindstream meets the sea.
The continuous stillness of this contiguous awareness
where everything is a symbolic event in a dream
trying to wake up from itself to set the dream people free.
Emotional effusions of the moon bleeding among the coral.
Solar flares of conceptual insight returning like ingrown hairs
to the source of their deception like unwanted children
though I’ve franchised orphanages all over my mindscape
to shelter my rational thought from the persecutions of my intuition.
Serpent’s tongues that have been struck by black lightning
humming like a choir of tuning forks half a note off
like a lie they told God, they’ve been living ever since.

No piety. But a natural kind of reverence for the life of the mind
breathing me in and out of my body like a bellows
trying to boil spiritual gold out of my default metal of lead
as things begin to heat up like the tongue of a sword
on the anvil of my voice. And by that I know
prophetic heads are going to roll on the growing edge
of an imaginative insurgency nothing flammable with life
can resist for long. I know anything I say about this,
if experience hasn’t cooked you in the same cauldron
I was born in, will seem unpatently absurd, but then
so are thermals in the open fields just before sunset
and the hawks that ride them for the sheer joy of airing their wings
unpertrubed by what’s moving in the grass down below.

Infinite grammars. Myriad alphabets. Space talks in tongues.
Everything that is lives and isn’t intelligent, but intelligence itself.
Chaos the mercurial cornerstone of an order that’s lost
the rhythm of life trying to syncopate its heartbeat
to the unmusical paradigms of stone-eared preconceptions.
I see crows with rubies in their beaks as if
they’d just isolated the gene for symmetry.
In this miasmic swirl of images and wavelengths,
third eyes coalescing like starclusters
out of clouds of unknowing breaking into light,
and the shadows they cast no less prepossessing,
how uninhabitable I feel as a planet hoping the night
will prove me wrong and make all things
communicable and clear as a mother tongue
I’ve been speaking for years without knowing it
even when I exile myself like the sacred syllable
of a native son wandering the earth like a rootless tree.

And there, do you see that constellation rising
like a distillation of the starmud I’ve walked in all my life?
Doesn’t it make you want to dance under it with the wind
like a chandelier you’ve thrown rocks because it’s beautiful,
as if someone were standing in it like a window
with the elevated perspective of the Pleiades
shining down in equanimity upon its desecrants
as if by their fruits you shall know the luminous generosity
of a windfall of light that falls at your feet
as if someone were germinating star sapphires in your bloodstream
to give you something higher to aspire to
than just teaching fire how to swim through the blues?

Inside the allegory. The logic of metaphor.
Hidden harmonies in synchronous pictographic fields
that resonate like cave paintings with otherworlds
that are not occluded by the imposition of space and time.
The younger ore of the outer world smelted down
like imagistic strokes of luck into the visionary elders
that transform them in the fires of their imaginations
into the igneous bloodlines that pour out of them
like the mystic metals of swords descended from ancient stars
that can give and take life at the same time
in these homeless realms of sacred ambivalence
before the dark mother tempered the forms she engendered
in tears that broke like the waters of a docetist womb.

Things here don’t relate like thought-trains on parallel lines
that never meet, whatever the destination, they associate
like chords and keys you can hear with your eyes
and see with your ears in a synteresis of the senses
that wash up on the shores of cosmic, island consciousness,
all wavelengths of the same inexhaustible oceanic mind
that doesn’t make things appear so much as emerge
like species efflorescing into the medium they’re working in.
Alloys of light and earth. Hybrids of water and fire.
The sky calling its birds. The river its fish.
And the longing of time in the mouth of the earth
to call us out of the starmud and bathe us in the rain
gentled out of her atmospheric acids so as not to burn
the tenderness she lavished on us like eyes and skin,
a new kind of shining to enhance the radiance of the stars,
light upon light in the skulls of the unbegotten ancestors.

This is the morphological matrix of knowledge forms
shaped to the organs of perception like neuronic synapses,
enjoining efferent axons to the walls of nervous villages
waiting for the news of what they’re experiencing
from the abstract receptors of oracular impulses,
construing the world as a dendritic grapevine
tendrilled like Celtic silverwork throughout the mind
rooted in space as the closest similitude
to the emptiness that is the ground of its being
and the great commingled watershed of its subconscious commons.

The simpler the window, the cleaner the view
so I attend to my seeing like a nightwatchmen
attends to his own eyes like the glow of a lantern
warns and reveals the shadows of his presence in the darkness.
Eye to eye with the sky at either end of the telescope
things of the world are things of the mind,
cosmology the bubble-brained psychology of the multiverse.
And there are some nights, waiting for a poem
to bloom like a flower in the flames of my intensities,
I swear I can overhear from stars away
the exhilarated echoes of alien voices ruminating
on how we might have changed the gestural expressionism
of our shapeshifting, river-turning, morphotic souls in their absence.

Probable concourses of multiplicitous insights
into the jewel I’m turning in the light of my mind
like the sun and the moon at midnight and noon
when the measure of words is the wingspan
of whatever sky I happen to be flying in
like comets and birds and maple-keys
that have unlocked my heartwood and set me free
to blossom like an alphabet on a pilgrimage of trees,
to express myself like an inconceivable wind
with wings on my heels in the hermetic shrines
of this unearthly solitude, this estranged silence.




I love the world the way a mother loves a dead child
and sees its ghost everywhere.
I look at the stars and more and more
I see the disappointment in their eyes.
We waste each other like clear cut forests.
In the sacred groves where the priests
are the birds of death, you’re either
a chainsaw or a nail protesting a passion play.
Ever since the last lyric died an agonizing death
poems have become gadgets
in the hands of inventors without fingerprints.
No growth rings in the heartwood of a dead tree.
Tone-deaf door-knockers who write poetry
as a kind of white noise to drown out
the shrieking of the innocent in their crawl spaces.

Chronic renewal of one-eyed overviews.
Most people’s lives are just big enough lies
they’ve told themselves often enough
to believe there may be something to it.
Wounded earth, I weep for you like a slayer
weeps for the slain. You were not my mother.
You were my child. Nemetic humanity
raises its own assassin in paranoid despair.

Measure of the mighty in the power of a dam,
how easy it is to forget the omnipotence
of a drop of rain. It’s still possible to open
cosmic gates of the aviaries and let
all the winged horses fly free and riderless
like the silk paratroopers of the milk weed pods
or the albino umbrellas of smouldering dandelions.
But for the most part
beauty and truth lost heart long ago
and were turned out like fashionistas
on the celebrity catwalks of surrealistic irreverence
and now the peony is wearing the thorns of the rose.

I still go out at night far from town by myself
to amuse the stars with my humanity,
the dents in my shining, the legends of light
I turned into black farces of self-righteous fallibility
as if I had acquired the power to reverse
a diamond back into coal. The mourning dove
studies the occult magic of the crow
and the sacred clowns look for enlightenment
in their shame, in the irrelevant antics
of the painted tears that fall from their eyes
whenever they address themselves
like mirrors in a green room putting their make-up on.

Been in the tide of this night sea of awareness
so long now, I’ve developed a tendency
to round the sharp corners of the crucials
out into more spherically embrasive wavelengths,
kinder pieces of sand-blasted glass
to insulate myself exponentially from the details
as if a full moon were some kind of antidote
to its own fangs and the harvest wasn’t toxic.
But I know I’m only trying to divine my way
by white lightning on the moon illuminating a road
as wide as everywhere. And my childhood rage
is stilling tearing down gates and fences
around open fields where the wildflowers bloom
without starmaps, and the bounty of the earth
isn’t a menu that determines your place in the foodchain.

Poetry’s been the longest good night I’ve ever experienced
and life the deepest, most gracious bow
to all the people, events, and things I’ve ever cherished.
Not too hard to see the lowest common denominator
of all values has become a quantum mechanical lottery
and physics is just a screening myth
for what gets murdered along the way to the promised land.
Enculturated to our own pollution like fish,
though we swim out as far as the spring equinox in Pisces
to pour the universe out of the universe,
worlds waterclocking into worlds, still
after washing ourselves off in stars like water and sand
seeping into our graves like the mirage of an oil spill,
we’re still recognized immediately among the worlds
by the indelibility of our filth, having yet to learn
not to track our identity in after us into the house of life.

The ululation of the loons wailing like Arab widows
reverberating across the lake sounds more
like an angry plea, than a call to prayer,
but who could lament the immensity
of that kind of tragic absence in a single lifetime
without emptying their spirits out like dry wells in a desert
that navigates like a madman by the full moon?
When I was young, I opened up a night school
to explain what a human was to the stars,
but now my soul’s a lot more illiterate than it was
and it’s me that’s asking them to teach me to read.

Even if you look at it like a leather boot
that’s walked down one too many roads
not to feel the pebble of the world bruise its heel,
even though we’ve made a great mess of it,
it’s still a great mystery, yes? Give your assent
without hesitation, or the moon will know you’re lying.
The mysterium tremendum et fascinans of the Romans.
The bright vacancy in the dark abundance
of the ore of our unknowing. Even the hardest heart
bleeds like iron out of the sacred rock
transformed in the forges of the fireflies of mystic insight
into a sword of moonlight worthy of being
laid down upon the waters of life in tribute.
Even if you had to fall upon it more than once
to get the point before you returned it in gratitude.