POETRY

Shavasana no.1

How full it must be Make it

Its intensity careens as clouds slowly glide.

The westbound wind kisses my face

and promises the arrival of Autumn.

The blue sky smiles again.

The leaves have been falling.

Squirrels harvest, they know the

cycle is unfolding.

I stand below the

great drama of the sky.

I live through the strange

lapses of light and dark.

I can sense the peace within all I see,

but my soul dreads the beautiful doom

the winds promised, the fate we share.

But not today.

I reassure my heart,

and return bravely to my

Visions in my mind's eye of our history

and the stories of Earth's great scars

lived -- the fading stories at my fingertips.

But perhaps they are recorded

in the novels of old, in characters

just human and fleshy enough to

fill the void in the ancestry of my soul.

They reveal in their mystique

the reason for the culmination

of this world-society that wallows

forward at the forefront of time.

Were those characters real at some point?

I'd like to believe they exist somewhere

or else I'd be reaching for light and love

in a thin pink fog with nothing to

And it was so bright, too

My eyes hyper-focusing on

the small green ovals of flavor

and spiny thyme, crux

of pinpoint vision

But my ears attuned

to the space between

thoughtlessness and song

And I looked up, hoping to see

angel-birds, but all I found

Is a Peace, quietly everlasting,

so unlike like the rest of these

embodiments, but I had hoped

to savor it like Joy and Pain;

Is a Peace that slumbers

on the earth; Is the space for

the air with which we breathe;

Is the heat on my body,

the sun-source,

where dreams, doubts & fantasy flourish.

In this other world, my Soul wanders

into (fabricated) memory,

into fetish & spiritual potential ---

enticing are the angelic ghosts & fearless demons.

Such is my freedom, such is my Time.

But the roots of all start here;

with You; my aboriginal home.

The birthplace of Pleasure &

Love & Death & Life itself.

I am bound and unbound constantly

to your Womb; killing and reviving the

exhilaration of my Sense.

Oh, sweet Bliss:

Will I run into you in my mind?

In my sleep, my daze?

Here You are as Earth's godsend,

reaching selflessly into

black water, a million stars

trusting that nothing

My Soul has a home on the dreamscape

There, on the horizon

of the black or white desert,

In an ancient City with no name

Its streets are Morpheus mazes:

yellow bricks pave campus paths

to robust haunted buildings

sleek mahogany organs

red & blue porcelain tiles

daunting elaborate stairs

Stairs that lead to dead ends

and grand corridors with

mysteriously whitewashed shadows

of everything lurking everywhere

And doors to dark secrets

And gas-lit libraries & courtyards

covered in snow

Some nights my Soul strolls on

red bricks, bright & eroded along

cafés & churches, amidst divine inspiration

the intense lingering kisses of sad rain

caught in the blinding light of the Sun

The City's streets will become part of the grey, pulsing Beast

A Heart with many sly hands & a yellow smile &

eyes that resemble the eyes of those

who swooned your imagination & lust

forgotten & killed

remembered with great agony & disbelief

Here, ghosts are demons & demons are

bus drivers who take you through

unripe or dying yellow-green fields towards

childhood neighborhoods

fenced off by tall black spikes

Who take you to where you need to be, lost

without fee nor language nor knowledge

Dream City hypnotizes my Soul & fascinates my Heart

And if there be a reason at all to live

gone in midday sunshine

rattles the newly dead and aches--

how tender are my wounds?

In his stony hands, the Wind carries the

ashes of my fallen desires

whose deaths come coolly through

my unlatched window

landing on my hand as a solemn

but bright caress:

one momentarily consummate lament

in remembrance of this year's obituary:

lull my disquiet blood

into peace

to the divine rhythm

of an emptying sky,

for it, too,

is an old poet heart

whose prolific art

The moon is all hers tonight

She demands from it

The reflection of her truest self

A heart

Full and gracious in the night

This love is see through

All of her hopes and dreams

Align in the night sky

A map of her soul is sewn

Intertwined like stars

A destiny suddenly illuminated

Activates a hearts embrace

Her skill is so much to taste

Mesmerized as she is flown

Into infinity

the moon's a white hole

from its pale chest radiates

blessed instant that

that somber face

lulled into dreams too bright

by shadows in the black deep

is awakened from a sleep

by soft purple skies

by flowering surprise

the synapse is beautiful

in it's naturalness

it's ease of becoming

from dead to alive

dusk to dawn

not here to here

I wonder where my poetry lies

is it in my psyche

or my eyes?

no place as simple

as a dimple

nor as brave as a laugh

It is always too high

above my head or

too low below feet

that I wonder whether

my synapse, my poetry

In my heart which

I think is love

Love for the trees

The sky, my family

You. The heaviness

Is the other side of love.

A longing, a desire for

completeness. A longing

For the trees

The sky, my family

You. The things I

Have and maybe

art is religious

found divinity in all

humor, submission, the

conscious decision to

transform the delights

into symbols

of the impending.

.

Deep breathing

still alive

the world still speaks

incessantly

and a feeling of incomprehension

based on an emptiness

robs me of information.

.

Discrete instances are

sleepily erased by the

flow of life,

becoming trepidant

impersonal

there for my momentary

amusement.

.

Memories, things past

even if just today

feelings suspended

fall anticipated

left sadly with vagueness

Or would it sooner drown me?

Would it carry me into an

undiscovered pond

.

where I alone float

among the lily pads of desire,

or sacrifice me to the tributaries

of the abysmal sea?

.

Oh, I dread to think of love!

It has long ceased to be a feeling!

It is a wound in my mind

that still needs healing;

.

Overprotective of love's children:

Pleasure and Pain!

I do not want to let them go,

for the only evidence of love's existence

.

must be the fruit of union. No,

Doubt and Dissatisfaction

are the monsters clutching at the shore;

it is no longer love I dream of!

.

Speak up! Speak up!

The roaring sea is deafening!

I am not fit to muse of love,

fluttering sensibility, the sweet kind

now cold and heartless,

I find at my feet

The grovelling devotion of perfection;

The alignment of all things.

I find at my feet,

Crawling up my legs

And taking up the space around me

The hunger of chaos.

And to be an artist is to find both

Deep in my Heart, deep in the Earth

And venture in to perfect chaos.

But whose job is it

To tame the same pervasive qualities

In my Self and in my Reality?

It is not the artist in me.

It is not the poet.

It is not the dream, the soul,

Or higher self.

It is someone else,

someone unborn,