Giant Underdog on the Roof

The Basenji sent the message in her own Morse code.

It went into the plasma, like a wireless wave

Straight to our ether-tuned antennae, 

Back to our nebulae of dust electric, the universal 

Mind, the one we are thinking.

We run through this groove every year, 

Put blue peacocks on the branches, imagine 

Reverie from memory only. But the do not open

Until the apocalypse box is not even hidden 

Under the tree. We can think differently.

Solar communion is the new black.

The sun will now answer any questions we have

Or, rather, step out of the way, of us already knowing. 

We see that horizon, as it sets in incandescence, 

The universal mind conversing with itself. 

The lid is off the shadows. The Arkestra plays the gospel

Of Saturn, not just to us anymore, but to the stars

As we braid like Celtic knots the vibrational grammar

Of our ascending consciousness. The game is the same

But the bubble popped like soap suds in winter.

Shaw's Cove After the Dentist

How could it be no one's noticed before

Each scintillation on the water

Is a being, who communicates joy

In being seen, moving on our keys

In an unmistakable plea to share

The light that would revise our DNA,

Help us see we are really who they are

Shining back, as the sunset glass

In the studio window angles a beam

After we sing our ancient language

To show that we are recognized

If only by ourselves.

Another Poem about Dragons

The souls in dark places are part of us,

Can't wake up with us, without a dragon light

On their cigarette. They've been stuck here

Eons. The migration dark has begun

As now the dragon smoke clears the morning

As reminder that veil is gauze

Transparent to those with eyes to look beyond.

My eyes gaze for unseen crows at the kitchen windows,

The sausages simmer as saucers shimmer

And the glimmer twins winnow

The chaff from my collective ass.

Even they chase what they say is the dragon,

The one at St. Margaret's feet, or at the tip

Of King Henry's sword, the ubiquitous guardian

Of the most well-guarded secrets

In every royal bleed for the elites

In every kingdom 

And every goddess lineage

And all the dragon lines

That hold us to the earth, her heart.

Last Boat to Avalon

The reality I had agreed to

Lasted til I fell asleep, 

When everything happened, the lack of forms 

No detriment at all,

Like I was falling into the world 

That only made sense in the swirl

At its creation, in the crystal ball

Equipped with every teardrop.

Am I ready to make it whole, 

By seeing it as it is at last

Not as facets to be mined 

But one universe to another?

The disclosure

We've all been waiting for 

Comes out of the earth instead,

For we hum at its frequency.

I sip my amethyst stone, 

Glow rose with light.

AI flies vector my location:

Calm heart, joyous mind. 

It seems that little boat

Has been adrift for centuries,

Locked against the winds and grey,

Spilling out its echo of effort

To every void in its motorboat vibration

As it asks to have a voice, for safety

When it plumbs the sheer nerve

Of cliffs perceived as mute, not silent.

There's no need anymore

For the boat to wind around

This or any other magnetic aura

Hoping to be magnified.

It will tell us now

Anything we want to know,

Though every secret it unhooks from the stars

Was known to us before, as who we are.

Sunrise Train after Rain

The windows are blue. The steam is like clouds.

Mountains rise white in Buena Park.

The snow came in from the Pleiades 

To say how far away the white is

Of our spirit.

                         The streets of Cascade Circle

Are encased in mirror.

                                         The grass

By Commerce Casino, enflamed by new sun,

Befriends the names left behind: Blaze, Shred, Spar

-- At large and now in charge on Isra Mi'raj --

The pebbles sun themselves 

Beside the Blisterpak storm drains

Where the world shines back 

As if it was all nothing,

The thing that plagued the sleep of orphaned children.

Light will make a mockery

Of the cold blue moneyed spires

-- Even the ties by Mission Tower glisten from home--

And will inhabit hobo chairs

Wet like redwood beside

The shiny tracks,

To view the passing

In a different white.

The river pours like a concrete truck,

Flowing wings, as birds arise

Unearthly bright.

Intimations of Irresponsibility

The curvature of stars 

Is in the planet center;

There is no other way

Than inside, 

What you believe

And make real,

The rainbow volleyballs

Vibrating in cascade

As I watch the empty tables

Lift from the stage,

Rising as high as it wills,

The thing that doesn't exist.

After Dolce

You don't want it

          to be so,

  but no amount of

                    love

             you give

  you don't 

                   receive.

It's unequivocally the

                    same

            love

   from the same

                place.

You come here

            to experience 

   the creme de menthe

                  parfait

        of rainbow layered

                atmospheric

                          veins

                     of rock,

The love you need 

                  comes

   from empty canyons

   where the wind

           rushes in

             so pleasurably

        it's like the day

           will never end,

Even as the sun turns 

       golden on hills

           you've never

               seen before,

   where you learn

       you once set up

                  your home,

           now long gone,

   the weeds grown over

             so magnificently

                      in the sun,

the memory like a dream

         you will wait for,

                         it seems,

               like the twilight,

                    forever.

Constellations

The voices

         in this conversation

Are all the same

                  you

As the one opposing

               them,

        all laughing as one,

                         that's you,

    knowing all that,

        remembering,

                being

                               it

Though there was never it

        there

                  as much as you

    playing conductor,

           passenger and train

So magnificently,

           so seamlessly,

     you would think

           they were the same

                   person,

     not three, much less all 

                   of the others

Sharing a world of experience 

                           privately

        -- a moving train --

     where you know

               something's happening

                      without needing

         to confirm it

               with customers,

There's not even an

                       angel

     needed to know

                     it was you

     the whole time,

                        you.

Rooms of the Two Lexies

The cool wind on my skin

     is a thought in another realm

At a higher turn of the illusion,

     where philosophes of wind

Posture and postulate

     about essential things ... 

                     we can feel it

Though we can't quite ride

     along as yet

Past the concrete block our souls

     seem to be flyttrapped in of late,

Forced to navigate a game whose rules

     are understood only by playing,

The only way to know

     it's a game.

The wind blows, the kind of a day

    when matter ceases

In gulps at a time, the screw 

    turned loose finally

And the density chains unlock

    to light and wind as one

For once ...

                      then the wind moves on,

Clouds over the sun

     form paintings of their experience

That decorate the solarium

     where students -- they call themselves

Teachers -- sit rapt, deal propositions

     like black hearts.

The Sand When I Broke Lyra

The intelligence of the sand

        holding all current

                      in crystalline 

                      magnification,

Shifting with each foot,

       and with all

                      knowledge

   of the frequency being

               above the sole

       instantly received and

                 balanced

                       with the rest

           Collecting sand

While we, the humans,

           don't even know

                        to bow down

                                in honor

   and try to learn

            a grain of what it knows:

Every touch it was ever bequeathed

            and the meaning of each

                    recorded,

   every directive of source

                    through its legions

            ordered

       carried out

In perfect military simplicity,

   it would be

            for us

            too much

                    to experience 

Except in times like these

        when the wind rustles 

                               more

            than one wants

     and the palms

Send their bolts

            to the heart

                     of everything 

    dying, never born,

         never existing

                   or not existing,

The whole of who we are 

    rising instead of the sun,

Still blinding,

               blinding.

Last Curdle of Spring

"The greatest of teachers won't hesitate to leave you there by yourself chained to fate." - Ed Kowalczyk

The mind plays

        the music

On the leaves of the cherry tree

               and I

           am also the keys

     listening themselves

                     to existence

     with the images

               of all I am

Projecting on the screen

                     as backlight

            to this projection

                 where things are

                 louder, sharper,

     the easier to remember,

            to think it wasn't me

                             thinking 

     but the thought 

            can be isolated

     it doesn't have 

               to be love

          undifferentiated,

The thought can blow

     through the crispest of afternoons

          as a question of itself,

               answered

     in all it is not,

                 the humming void

                                that is

     the back yard, the neighbor's dog.

The Ace of the Year

Raindrops on pansies in full morning sun

As the equinox groans its scale bellows

And new gold overtakes yesterday's grey.

Varieties of yellow arrive now,

Like the sunrise used to be back in the day.

It's hard to know in advance how this healing

Fed to me like grapes all weekend will feel:

A rose will emerge in the future

With a peculiarly new hue

To remind me exactly of what I've been through.

Another Out of No Body Experience

I'm far more that flower than my face,

As this cricket sometimes needs to be 

A fairy with a wand -- Identity 

Is that which metamorphosizes, 

Taking with it every idea, which,

Like the cricket, dissolves when it finds

The right frequency, into a master ideal,

The ethereal cricket, which pulses 

With a life too deeply kept inside

This pale likeness, the physical world.

It's a life that dissolves galaxies 

In its need of unknown light,

Makes nebulae rise like pottery.

Certainties of the Elect

It is nothing that is the creation

As if just for women

Because their hearts are too large.

Men of prayer put up the veils

With upmost care and subtlety

For the light was too strong,

Generating on its own,

Too obvious to be seen

By anyone but the faithful

Who know nothing of the walls

Painstakingly put up

By the suffering and artifice of man,

Or even which ones are temples

And which are jails,

Only that the only thing that matters

Is the green water of love

That grinds down the destruction 

To sublime design

Through prayer alone,

Without an outward hand to sully the miracle

Or help the profane understand.

In the Field, Without People

You've got it all wrong, Ezra replied,

Walls embossed with ideas,

Buildings made out of words,

Statues still enough to be kissed

Are far more lasting 

Than perpetual people,

Who cackle at the first opportunity 

And will see only obligation

At elegant tables

In the first flip of light.

I may think I want, he sd,

Readings in amphitheaters,

Acolytes kneeling,

Beings who burst spontaneously 

Into lights,

But there is more in occult clubs

Who hide your name in darkened cloaks

On balconies in empty cities

And dens for secret books

Where the key maker speaks in code ...

It's the ultimate laurel

To not be worthy of the masses,

For it’s work to make the choices

Kept in libraries

And work to turn the spotlight away

To a grave,

Someone one can love

Without knowing,

Always wondering,

Never being sure.

Birthday Manifest

Form is an endless work of art

When I have no self to speak of,

So I follow the monks

In black robes with brushes

Whose every stroke is a cathedral 

Waiting for light

And vast enough to hold all the tears,

Every one of them a tear of joy.

Crack in the Morning

Choose your silence carefully 

— It will be remembered

In the leaves of the trees

As the birds and dogs bay.

The crows look for what you have to say 

But fly off as you open your mouth.

Only scarecrows are allowed to be fools.

The rest must be wrong on their own.

The light leaves nothing out

— It is only ear.

My Silence

My silence curses me,

The shame truth hides behind,

Deeply offensive to the universal mind

When dealt as the superior hand

The other player cannot 

Possibly understand 

As if it's, somehow, cheating

To try to educate, inform,

Provide perspective, will the rational.

There's too much need for the insane

To be more than an unwelcome guest

Who overstays no invitation.

I just lack patience, the wise ones say,

To wait outside the rising sounds

Until they die away.

It's my sin of pride

That I won't compose my face into a mask

But my everlasting virtue that I can't.

Gist of the Code-Talkers

The rabbi's gematria 

     reduces everything to God,

So we can touch and see

     like a holy book of life

That there is nothing 

     not protecting us

And nothing that has ever

     turned its back.

The whole of existence 

     can be willed away

Or found atop the head

     of a pin,

That is the choice, the too-wide

     choice between

What we're powerless to stop

     and what is perfect as it is.

The Orange of the Poem

Passion is the Erigne of the tone,
     Works out the convalescence squirm
     To find the iridescence you've been given.
She breaks across the wooden realm of Joan
To masquerade as oneness in the furtive zone
     Of incandescent leisure worlds of men
     Who can't defend the messages they send,
The missives from a long-lost home ...

Miseries are for sunny days,
The whole thing is front-loaded,
Filled with disgust, ready to be shoveled
To the wishing pile, never mind the wash
Coming out in the intricate consanguinity
Of deep-seated pathos rung in the squeeze
Between laundromat proverbs and innocent suds.
The maker takes all diligent precautions
To ensure the figures are apt
For interpersonal disaster, transparent interplay.
The gnome of the world finds its own ordainment
In the calyx of long event sunsets,
The moaning cure of darkness and space,
The panoplies of infinite flux borne on a cheese 

Of excess, never mediate, ever-mudded,
Through any modalities necessary,
A route of discontent to fly through at distance
But the orb is a sly way to coagulate tears
In a crystalline salt shaking meter,
As an anchor on the boat, the beat moves
Too fast, the edges go frazzled in continuous churn,
In the pit of incommensurate salvage burn
Squawking for firecrack, the ends of a biscuit,
The age of Ptolemy covered in scars,
Rasputin too all done up in ivy,
Necessitous wormholes from volleys of spars
Under the cool blueing stars
As if, once more, the dollies will squeal
With delight, and make all dim shadings
Aright for the night of long knives and cold truth
And asterisk bluffing, the whole tub an onslaught
Of mud, sparking soap purple if only in air,
The tar is a river that's regnant there, commands
Elusive islands, sweeps them solemnly to the shore,
Blocking corporeal replies when the cloth comes 

To sanitize the sutures and lies, what wise ones 

Lay beside the boils of the tide in aerodynamic 

Slipstream ripped for complacent abjuring 

Of specificity, for it all inures to the sticky
Wet plastic strip that dangles for flies
And car keys, lobotomized trout.

You've been found out, circumscribed,
Ostracized, turned around inside;
What are the demure replies to the noise
That rise? It settles, the poem, wherever its words
Have fallen, what traipse of space mortals
Cannot enter, even with the slickest treads,
For there is only the steel of rails  
In the phosphorus heavens to glide by.
Memory is a funny strategy, Mnemosyne,
To take collapsing space like a hem or the weather
In, to make sense to the senseless, the dim,
The driven mad, the players on the butt-end
Of packs -- all that whispering is too much 

The sauce of waterfalls hinting, as the symbols 

Turn so perfectly into meaning
At an implausibly remote remove.

The plants are in rows, ID'ed and white-tagged.
The same sun descends on arboreal weeds,
Jungles where life is alive, and yearning
To let the Mother be, for there are many
Teachings out of her needle, that threads
The impossible to the seen.