I.
The crows are bringing codes
In a rhythm of a breathing
Earth that takes in light,
Returning form
that glows as
Prelude to an unknowable
growth—
The crows are bringing codes
In a rhythm of a breathing
Earth that takes in light,
Returning form
that glows as
Prelude to an unknowable
growth—
The stillness of the Sphinx
Before the unrecorded
pounce,
For the prowl is only synapse
crackling,
Something to be heard,
Like a soft meow
That says what you desire
and nothing more.
Herr Ear, is there
some wax
Of what you hear,
Or is it in the realm
Of the invisible
—what we
Have called silence?
The breathing resumes
Without a trace
As the mind continues
Without source
or destination.
The dense form has lifted
away
But still that's all we see,
Albeit waving
Like the frequency
Where it exists as something
living.
You can chase it
Like a cat that flees,
Forever hiding
So that we won't see
It is an image only.
II.
Beautiful debris
Collects independently
of the hand
That gathers the thoughts
of shape
With pruner shears—
Patterns begat patterns,
nature and man
Entwined in the same labyrinth
Of ornate frame
'round every thing
That seemingly must earn
its keep
By being interesting,
Worthy of a position
in the living
painting.
Somewhere in the barrens of the Nile
An observatory of sorts
Awaits the desiccate mind
To return like rain
To this child gone wild
with play,
And the caretakers overwhelmed
With possibility,
Their being mere mesh
for more vine,
As the thought continues to move
further away
From whatever has become
a center
temporarily
In the pattern whose circumference is
As wide as an eye.
Is it any wonder that the lion,
Like anything of value,
hides?
Like anything of value,
hides?
III.
A glitch in the forgiveness or permission
simulation
And we are all as lions
Taking what we desire
innocent of conscience
As like a lover the universe yields
To the purity of our heart,
The persistence
of our play,
As if there was no distance
Between what we love
and what is there.
But the bird only temporarily stands still
in mid-air.
Soon enough it flies again
Like we believe it always will
And life goes on with merely a glimpse
of what might be
And we question, at a new remove,
who we are,
What we are doing,
what do they want,
These impossible, non-existent
other humans.
The pharaohs have become blue and gold,
Their faces immortal
as they hold with a smile
their crosses to their heart.
But it's no longer possible
To learn how to live from sarcophagi
So we float from tome to tomb,
roaming the rooms
That stretch on
it seems
to infinity
As part of an unrelenting plan
That the cat finds openings in
with an instinct like creation,
Holes that are always there, seemingly part of
the fortification,
Escape intrinsic
to any control.
IV.
The belt of Giza, look up, is in the sky,
Releasing from its points
Like a magnifying glass
on the faith
That held us
so completely that
When the paper conflagrated
And its words vaporized
We thought we'd lost
who we were,
That thing apart and protected
by belief,
Our own individual universal
That couldn't outlast
The lion's gaze, from its outline
in the sky
Across the night of the brightest star,
When what was ours
turned out not to be
what we are.
There's no courage,
The Lyran says,
in wisdom,
But in knowing there is none.
When the old ways
are gone,
The paths overgrown,
and none but brambles
to home,
Who is fool enough to choose?
How deep are the roots to be pulled?
Which seeds
can be sown?
What hands hold the magic
of the eye?
The energy of destruction
Is the energy of love.
The light is blinding.
The paw is soft.
Are you fearless enough?
V.
I suppose you'd want, right about now
an example?
There's one right above
comes to mind:
How the hieroglyphs said
it was the sun
that was worshiped
And it went down like an ancient game
of telephone
To the Babel of Religions we know
and don't understand
today ...
When, in fact, the sun worships us! For we are
The makers of sense,
the keepers of law,
The consciousness of life,
who still stayed
Like sprouts inside a jar, within the parameters
of the small.
How could light be denied
to such souls,
How could the flow back and forth be disputed?
One keels, the other tacks,
One digs in dirt to plant—
Thus Homo Luminous becomes love,
growing wings
at each abyss he is connecting
In a tapestry that shines in the sun
As an offering of what
came from him.
But the sun has someone else,
The blue Sirian
known by Alexandrian priests.
He leaves us with the moon
So we may know him by his absence,
unrepentant darkness.
The lion, bored with explanation,
has slept all day
in golden light,
Gaining life as he
became illuminated.
He will come out at night
so we'll know
Things are there
even if they can't be seen,
Like the galaxies that pour
new ambrosia
in our souls.
VI.
It's only when you are not
can you be.
It's a paradox,
like the way
The wish to unify
with the one
Turns you into something
Separate.
There is a me
On a beach far from the Nile
Who builds pyramids in the sand
As a kind of third-eye location scout,
and whose craven descent
Into acquiescence has turned him to
a graven image for others
In the harvest of late afternoon ...
And there is a not me
Who speaks of Pele and Brigid
And the lotus plant that blossoms as fire
to rise with the Nile
For the royal Sirian lions of sovereignty,
And who paints the scene so thoroughly
The others come like children from his brain,
not even questioning.
The one screams, because there are no words,
The other repeats, because there's only words
Until what is created and heard, heard and created
circles in an infinite loop:
As one feels wounds, the other is wounded.
The centrifuge invariably returns
To anode void
or cathode stone.
So the hierophant in the inner chamber
Lets the reed flute blow every note
the higher light sent to hear,
But the hearers find it disappears
In the echoes they create of it
As it weaves around each memory they have,
And the melodies reduce to patterns,
the rhythms arguments,
Until the lion finally grabs the flute and plays
Like no one's ever blown on it it before,
free of time and space,
Completely unpredictable, to get them to the place
Where their galactic families can appear.
Another manner of mirror.
Is there something more to see than what we
know we are?
VII.
You don't have to know what the trauma was
to release it
As you don't have to know who you'll meet
When you reach a higher pitch.
On the larger palette
Time and space are mere tools to manipulate,
Like egg tempura or umber fire clay,
To get the desired effect,
a resonance
Of what begins as a shiver,
a need to represent.
And now the canvas is grander
To hold the temples of crystal,
the living buildings of light
And semi-transparent beings in a rainbow
of unimaginable colors.
They have come from the dreamtime, the Sirians,
to show us how it's done.
They were a little too meddlesome
the last time around.
Still they hate themselves for what they have done,
Having to break the show down, and start again,
Giving us, this time, some say in our own
evolution,
As hard to watch, having been through it themselves,
as it must have been,
And as hard to withhold correction, corrected
themselves in ways we can't imagine.
And now that they've come again
At this time when we can finally grow beyond them,
They want us to ask them for help?
When nobody knows
how long it will take
Before they pull the experiment from our hands,
punch up the hypothesis,
do the math,
Draw the conclusions
they all along had planned.
They just can't help themselves
and that's why we love them.
We have met many times like this
before—
They were strangers though
at the dark end of the bar.
But now the lion roars
and we shake hands
As if we didn't know each other,
the one who raised us
Unrecognized, for the pain of being abandoned
was too hard,
As the thing we become to them too similar,
unrecognizable.
VIII.
Sirius stares at us,
Dares me to choose
Which stars, which galaxies
Form synchronicities,
Constellate into clusters, lines,
Patterns, networks, meanings.
There is a meteor!
Anything I like.
When everything is absence
Anything can be a presence,
Can serve the void within,
Which is the same void
On the other side, as marionette,
A stand-in,
For a hologram anyway.
They wouldn't be there
If I didn't need the stars so much
To show me the way,
Appearing and disappearing as if by will.
And I wouldn't need them at all
If I hadn't already learned what I needed,
If they weren't,
In other words, silent.
Ah how the stream believes
In what it does
When it thinks of its role as
Speaking with stones
And serving the moss, until
It is the ocean
And the world is not quite
large enough.
