June 3 - New Moon
Sez the voice beyond the forms:
First get past the pain, then—
rupture all encumbrances,
dash through love’s diversions
like a single star-nosed mole.
The retching yawn of space unloads in chasms mortal sense
but pleas the mud of canyons as the truth.
The viper of the word renews a solemn realm of music
while vying to connect with threads that blow when they have grown.
The music stays in chain-step melodies
whose harmonies in sepulchres cannot communicate
beyond connected fragments passing weights,
for truth is found when things are not connected,
the easy flow of shadow-lacking cysts
revolve and echo all they pass, you call them lonely,
but they fuck inside and match themselves in the grandeur of space,
while waves constrict, proximity veils,
the durum flower raids the perfect jump.
To see self
as part of the sea
is not to see
self at
all.
The blaze of alleles mud up for company,
react across the alleyslime to language.
O’er the blowhards galley daze a fang’s age, phantasm’s mirage.
The rational fans forth flowers, to allure, spread & grow more rations:
false deliberations, measuring flaws, coronas of forgotten
around a central hull that is itself bulwark, holding nothing.
These secrets that we seek against the lies that they replaced
(Christ as Jewish, pyramids as tombs) are simply empty vessels
of discerning what is not, not what is,
the is is far more easy: whatever the mind creates
rests here for a season, and moves it to contemplate…
June 6 - Crescent Moon
Trust is this
it says
what is not known,
the Tarantella river
flowing backwards
to the source,
the reedy swallows
and naked bush
invoke a cannon
of tradition
embellishing away.
The stage of
stuporous gas
has left us,
the wave of
vacuum
hoovering,
but we don't see it
'til we know it,
buckles open, on the rim
of cast-stone gliders
taking history for a spin,
weighed-down hard knocks
of proprietary whims
smash the subject
twinkling algorithms
bestial connivance
as the underflower swims
its pods and paws
relenting
in confetti struct-
ural scrim.
The hollow of
the yervil
perfect yearling of the phase
downdrafts in cruel
remonstrance
tickets tithers last
constance
hallowed sin balls swipe
a chafe
on the endless
fetal res
that bring abstinence
to oblivion,
feasts to dormant
days.
The ratchet straws
are bending,
the gimcrack aisle
is loose
what brings these feathered phantoms
to the roofs?
The single becomes double,
the ironweed evolves,
the pollination tumbles
through levels and through bells,
through irrigated
loneliness
and segregated sighs,
through ice cream and Jerusalem
and the letters in the pi
skyward it tends, though gravel,
unbending,
will yield for the extra crop,
the tactile extroversion,
protuberances stopped
and then stoppered
with harlequin locks.
You died to decide this,
how it all goes,
the anguish and the grievance,
the seepage and the close,
the squawk of game conclusions,
the croak of passing lanes
the intervening calls
of doves and ghost train
engineers
closing the circles
that swarm
with smoke
and still we remember
nothing
the broadest outlines
are but
glamours in the spoke...
June 9 - First Quarter Moon
Sun of my heart,
layers below layers
tell me what there is to know of truth..
The final reliquary, the inverse orb,
the circumstantial girding of the ply...
All avenues alight on dapper dependencies,
on wit to eat and truth to swallow,
none come out in the end,
they are bird paths from the mallow
incendiary cautions that deplete the august trust
of years upon years nothingness preceeding
in a limn of constantaneous smut,
adorable lichens consider breeding
from what you've rejected as unseeming,
the rust of your eloquent diversions,
banging and bonging on sticks that surmise
a vibration is haunting, the trick is sunrise
erasing the board, completing the neon containment,
it bows to the shift, lifts on the fog grass,
feathers the protocol of entrainment.
Enough of the mulch, you cry, in your darkness,
it is what it is, not good enough, for
art, or sadness, but what you don't know is that
truth is of the same residue, soil
for the lower dimension, a loam
of conquest, leads to silt of survival,
the growing things ripped from the ground,
without their own soul, without an occasion
that justified rivers to flow, through it, to earn it to grow.
And you ask, skybound one, for the containing measure?
The dupe in the dross that makes all things right?
Do you ever remember the source of this mischief,
the inventories held in the light?
For all is either stuck or escaping,
reeling away or reeled in—what sense
can you make of your brush and erasing
when nothing you move on is still?
Behold the gap that waits, called the station,
the transitory train that takes firms to farms,
what is all this need to capture and define
in the face of what is mortal, the forms?
Willow of ecstasy, how can it be, the one thing
you don't know is the standard?
The heat and concrete deceive you so, the one thing
you always let go,
can it be that the play that reaches in joy and love
is the thing, don't ya think, don't cha know?
The voice that formulates, not the heavenly freight,
the unsaid running the show?
Is there something right or wrong?
No. It is only the vantage of the plum
roiled in recondite uncertainties,
master of the nub, the nothing plaster,
the passenger-fixed eye of the censure,
the overnight drayage to town.
Where can loss find a trinket, where are alms
to be left, what unthoughts are forgiven,
what blank hulks are ordained?
It's all a relentless unyielding
of all that keen sense admits,
a clasping against straws as they fall to the firmament,
you cannot delete the delinquent link if some fits
some vestige of longing, some tramway of grief,
a ticket with colors to all that one fears,
the way you're positioned, the choices you've made,
the singular rhapsody you'd thought to compose,
only notes and letters on an endless scale
that roller coasters with no apparent purpose,
just running boards fashioned to tents
that serve to draw the wind in one's face,
make gravity ring in the pit of one's stomach,
a lesson of healing, of what you got wrong
when you've done everything, remembering nothing.
The fold-out delight that some comes to your crash wall
incites more relief than you ever can know,
the permanent ends, and the being born conquers
a place in the canon of flux. Such names
that remember the lakes of September,
the lanes where the cotton descends,
so pure in its finite, by-product of choice
like cattails spread to seed-hole averages
by billowing voices of pollen-filled breath.
The sun luminates as you move through the changes
inspecting in your soul for a curse that laughs back
or a place it can do all, too much for the moment,
the throng and the clog and the bend and the stack
relenting, always, a willowy blowing,
a fire-escape locket of scent.
June 16 - Gibbous Moon
I'm emptied my mind of everything but earth,
the yawning chasm where failure lurks.
I no longer wish to explain pain or account for joy,
I merely want to hear the gear sounds of the spheres...
Might fine, my love, then listen, don't talk.
The clasp is undegrading, the sparks are amethyst,
the plies are staying, monks meet cannibals,
the around circumference deletes, with hawsers of infirm relief,
the splash of surveillance begets nomenclature
of no known "endliness," the subvert player
of note, replying in tune, measuring scores,
lapping at brumes, the singular cutlet,
the matchstick of ruins, evocative - gala brands incipient wretch
of counterfeit hoopla and curious wrench
it gathers in fullness, the gathering quench
that twitters in highness, and fritters its trench,
the masticate highlands and whippoorwill stretch
that spans the item's vocabularies,
the system of fetch (no, don't recapitulate, reclaim
the non-sense, unendlessly unending).
Horrors of basket twine
cilia wheeze of ardor embankened for a squeeze,
the last remaining withstand, if you please
merry-cating, marvellating, myst-igating
throbbing urn quickens on a disembodied
flesher threshed to threads of flavor,
of the analgesic night and all it members -
who are we dashed in the periphery,
squashed in allegory, berated in neglect?
When does a cavender flow to the entrance
of the drink, unmolested, in the link
of corny dialogues unfettered as they think
of hard-luck sausages and rapid pinks
that express confounded messages, of gates and hems,
the eternal everlasting, the politics of stem.
Rasputin's neglect is Plutarch's ropes,
infinite trajectories of mercy,
the solemn somnambulant catch
of gleaning twilight --
rapid bones, ribald hones
meddlesome bonus
in the speed it was delivered
as hijacked foams
tremulously combing.
The attar of a diver
quenched and spread
in profligate dis-substance
unerringly lifted to the card pool
where boils of sanction
recover ears.
The mace of acquaintance
veers its jarring sycophantic lace
in jets of harbored tracing
disinclined to yield an inkling
to the Mesolithic rapture
of the suit --
we all combine the increments,
raised and dazzling, into a
soup of altercation --
pony presses snapped as beds --
the intricate connivance
of otherworldly lead
in buckets for the seeming
pails of living said
"the red bled dead who fled the flooded wedding head
instead of sledding to the shed."
Hobart skirted it,
the Tammany on rye,
the jiminy crackers
of the buzz-saw high,
whooped a saving grace
like altar pennies on the vine,
distanced lovers wearing tweed
across their thighs.
It's all remembered, reforgotten,
forged in ice,
unearthed in restless wind,
a forge of known reflection,
it gathers in us endlessly,
a hollow drawn conclusion,
a Kublai Khan of derrieres
stroking midnight's chins.
The blast of steadfast violins
swerving to their end
relieves the catchy memory
from holding bitter friends,
who blow like wide deliriums
on a tide that's circumscribed
by anger and by dignity,
by offsets and by bribes,
the mortal and the canopies
that flay and fling their ways
neglect the same soliloquies
that writers must embrace:
the hidden in the moment,
the candle waking wise.
June 18 - Full Moon
I've finally let go
so much I feel I'm crazy
and that brings terror
and maybe rapture...
[crickets]
June 21 - Disseminating Moon
Holy, holy, layla, hold me,
let me feel my breath - from other climes.
It will all make sense once you let go.
The nomenclature will shift.
The guile will release itself to the oblivion it deserves.
The snooping calyx of loss
will deploy multiple versions
across a bonfire sky.
The stolen tissues dropped in dripping ink
along a sea: we call humanity!
Aha - it blinks, you chord,
the link is made, in distance and in accord;
apostrophes of the Serenghetti,
your words precede you and negate
the mind you contemplate
- it is your own, a perfect line
that calls the camel blue,
sings blissful show tunes about the moons,
leaves the instrument afterwards in dust
as if it served the mind, and not the mind it.
Words predate time, give it life,
across the empty space they weave a thought always,
to be plucked perhaps, but never to be caught,
the wind in silent canopies existed in the word
before appearing to the flesh.
You know all this.
It's what you're seeking in the breeze,
everburning evergreens turning for your tease,
a spit and crackle genial display,
that comes from nought and vanishes again away
taking with it some small locket
undetected, then remembered,
like the kid who fell through stages to be born
at this river, this moment, this sun.
June 25 - Last Quarter Moon
Why do I run from you?
Because you have to -
the trinket you hold,
it shines your life,
how could it be paste?
The endless bumping up of stuff
against the glass,
and relentless pulling back in
to a familiar place -
could it be that what is you
is what is silent?
It's meaningless, this endless creation,
from the standpoint of the creator,
but the retriever, who sees it to
new patterns, familiar
because remembered
from somewhere. They take you
to a window, but do you jump?
If just to see, how does it change you?
Are you looking at what
is past, or what is future,
or what has already disappeared
before it reaches your eye?
June 29 - Balsamic Moon
Where did the moon go?
It was there in the sky
and now it's gone.
This was not an item in the news.
The past is others' words,
the future waiting words,
Either way,
the words are all you got
of it, the thing
that can't be
captured by the word,
(because it is the word
capturing),
the prey twists
in open space,
the hunter changes
ancient reveries
ajar like peanuts cracked
waiting to be eaten,
born to be consumed.
The mizzen-shell of duty
neglects all but the corpses,
it catalogues and elongates
and flags with varied poses
the things that cannot speak,
whose essences on you
closes off itself
in embers of neglect,
the visceral pairing
of dometeens and flesh
leads somewhere that your
compass, also flesh,
cannot go.
The swirl and instant
chamber fleck,
the bodice of the durable
crinoline lined angel
in the wreck
splashing sentences,
trumpets on deck,
vying to withstand
its providence
as it harrangues
mortal chasms,
unlocks mortal charms,
casts a delicate stupor
on a fragrant piece of steam
roiling through the bushes
to be seized, and cleaned,
and gleaned, forming
on the bridge of a brow
the moisture drop of
living large
as lakes dissolve
in gold.
