The engine in the center - gold...
A never ending fire
rips the bulwark catapults,
pulls the slat desires,
harmonize the commonplace
with lies
hinging disintering things,
widgets long estopped;
cranes that pull up skeletons
roam an endless loch.
Terraforms and terrabytes,
tetrahedron gnomes
cast their numbers to the wind
breaking in rad forms
spurious, supercilious
easing into place
that core that won't stop baking
catalogs new tastes,
wretched format you require
for all your stations
of learning how to deal with your
ecstatic calculations.
Stop, just stop the merry romp
of blackening your sight
it's just an endless ferment,
a dial of black and white.
Overlong and overmuch
you've fiddled new returns
when all that is invites you
to unlearn.
----------------------------------
Spiritus. Restus. Nos Deus Tributum.
Wo es colyandrun virtus veritas.
It is in the seeing - now -
not with eyes but inner sight,
the bourn from which the shadows are created.
Like motes in your eye, like dandelion manes,
the highest consciousness trying to arrive
inside your mind's eye
o traveler from home!
To allow us make us real
—so you too turn actual
not just a sullen sharpening of wind
but an intentional being
tied to endless chains
of life aligned
in harmonies
eccentric
to the source,
inviolable outbursts,
incandescent threads.
What is not
is only what
what is
appears to promise:
the opening in something
of a gate;
the hand that furrows
catches on the shore
of turbid rushing
forward as the spore.
Maintenant vous-etes decrime,
la volontaire escrime,
The may pole and the manifold
in perfect sheets of rhyme!
You could call earth
a prison
except words
definition
locks what is in
to what it isn't.
Look at how all stuff turns into mind
and how mind captures all it is
merely to look.
dove's blue wing
