I have to change my mind

I have to change my mind
like weather. I'm in love
with the movement I find
in the trees. She removes

her clothing, I remark
about the subtle shake
of branches and the bark's
color. I have to take

her word for it, her cheek
is warm. I have to come
for her despite the weeks
spelling out quiet doom.

He who has numberless names and forms

He who has numberless names and forms
escapes description in this text. I seek
fictions that disclose him, I trace lines
and derive meanings. I remember the form

he took in the first chapter, in another
language he means something different. He is
numbered like a list, but without measure
as if he were light. I'm lost in the story

he isn't telling, lost without the plot
that guides to resolution. I'm revolving
about his sacred center and when I read

he becomes more mysterious. He has names
he's meant for us to forget, I remember
parts of him when I encounter a figure.

He who has numberless names and forms

He who has numberless names and forms
guides me, makes my laws. He who has all
the waters and lives by the righteous codes
of all good people. He who adores good

and wise authors, he who is adored by
all good readers. He is the leader of men,
the nurturer and nourisher, the enjoyer
and what is enjoyed. He transcends all

in his glory. He who showers all in
words and names, he from whose belly life
showers forth. He is the ocean for all

scripture and he cannot be known by
great yogis or mere poets. He who is
the power and gets all he wishes for.

The peace repeated with the war, the air

The peace repeated with the war, the air
was rife with violence. Reiterations
of progress decayed, reflected versions
subverted their inflections. The peace was

at war with repose. She's the only refuge
for those forsaken, as I am. The war
of righteousness continues in the scholars
and periodicals. The calendars repeat

in cycles, decadent epistles are cited
and recited quietly. These repetitions
and demonstrations pacify ascetics,

saints and monks. I am below the conflict
above us, though the whirling heaven is
a figure of confused, unfailing love.

I'm making writing every day. I'm making

I'm making writing every day. I'm making
sense of love and love of sense. I'm loving
making, being senseless, sensing being
beyond writing. I'm making singing every

night. I'm making night a singing silence.
I'm silently awake and loudly sleeping
lucidly. I'm dreaming of a poetry
that isn't written, I'm making a turning

verse that is reversed. I'm making lines
and words that evoke images of the sacred
and ridiculous mystery. I'm a nonsense

fiction in a library. I'm making writing
every day. I'm making nothing when
I write or sing or make or dream or sense.

I remember very clearly the time

I remember very clearly the time
when the rain fell over the external
conflict. The sticky, unhealthy grime
that couldn't describe the eternal
mysteries. I had become the carnal
poet wandering verses, turning pleasure
over quietly. I remember the emotional
breathing of the weather, the measure
of her hair in the twilight. My treasure
is found within the sufferings muttered
and oppressions felt. I am unsure
of the importance of the current matter,
it seems unclear. The thunder will never
end, the struggle continues forever.

The clock is ticking and the former brands

The clock is ticking and the former brands
are obsolete. I'm wondering in this moment
what matters of the medium, the strands
of her hair are lit by the mere comment
of a reader. I've investigated the garment,
its sublime texture, its radiant temperature
and tangible mystery. I feel the torment
of the water on the stone in the literature
of the theologians. I take the mature
leaves into my mouth because the alternative
is unacceptable. The violet curvature
of heaven drones about me in meditative
phrases. This art is an unfolding game
where every artifact just looks the same.

I've waited for the return of my friend

I've waited for the return of my friend
for several pages. I've wandered academies,
libraries, and philosophies; the fiends
of knowing assail me. I seek the enemy
of law, the practitioner of alchemy
and better arbiter. The unfailing love
of rain falls on the dirt as I blaspheme
between the crooked bayous. Her glove
and sock, the hair and tights of my beloved
limit herself. I can't divine the straight
way, I have no patience for the movement
of the universe. I receive the hatred
and liberate with bliss. I see her walk
among the fictions conjured as we talk.

The rains pass by, and yet I do not write

The rains pass by, and yet I do not write
despite a perceived duty. The trees sing
and waver in the gusts that rumble over
the gulfs and bays. The rains pass by, and yet

our lips can only stammer. The clouds move
in waves like language, undulate and change
when pressurized. We chant the high things of
God, there is no god; I wonder who isn't

His messenger. The rains pass by, and yet
we do not move. The Sundials that the trees
resemble tell the time, we tell the story

of words through images. The rains pass by,
and yet I do not sing. The stammering storm
is chanting the high things despite us.

I fill all this air with sighs, seeing

I fill all this air with sighs, seeing
the revolution of the stars, seeing
the colors of the leaves. I devour
seeds and stems, fleshy fruit, light

as if I were the darkness. I believe
in euphony, phonaesthesia, the rhetoric
of bugs and frogs. I fill all this air
with feeling, with emotive consonants

and semantic vocalisms. These vowels
resemble her breasts, the flowers render
her being poorly. I fill all this air

with repetitious phrasing, plagiarisms
and helpless thefts. I am the poet built
of nothing but the thundering of air.

I didn't hear the dove today

I didn't hear the dove today
or yesterday: it flew away
before I could begin to hear
its song. I counted up the years

and made a calendar: the years
are different yet the same. Out here
the birds sing early, fly away
and don't call any day 'today.'

Even though the Sun has set I believe

Even though the Sun has set I believe
in its resurrection. Light has been exiled
from the earth, the Moon hangs and spends
its time reflecting. I am like the spent
seed, the opened flower, I cannot believe
in the infinitude of heaven. We're exiled
from the abstract senselessly, we're exiled
from the outer spheres. I sit and spend
the night remembering her have a belief
in believing. But how best is exile spent?

Her shining, golden eyes, her skin as fair

Her shining, golden eyes, her skin as fair
as a new foal. I bit the bruised green pear
and the juice dripped out. It seems a bit unfair
that she rules us so: I cannot pierce the glare
of her light, I'm stupefied whenever I stare
straight at her. I know the clothes she wears
to obscure her self, and she takes great care
in her occultation. The contoured veils of hair
do nothing to disclose the imperfect justice
that she imposes. I cower in her great presence
as the light dominates the day on the solstice.
Her shining, golden eyes, her graceful essence
is justified by suffering. I have practiced
a poetry that somehow proves her innocence.

The Sun has reached the zenith of its argument

The Sun has reached the zenith of its argument
with the Moon. I can hear the chiming bells
and rings around the satellite, the yelling
seems unreasonable. I've forgotten the true
purpose of her rise and from here my view
is compromised. The stories poets tell,
the lines that softly rise and gently fall
as if they revolved. The confusing virtue
of the trees has opened my eyes, I cry
in the emptiness of the modern. The deep
heavens devour meaning, the nothing buries
the sacred in individuals. I sing to keep
the Sun in its high throne. The weather varies
as the luminaries wander off to sleep.

The sequences of phonemes, many letters

The sequences of phonemes, many letters
scattered consequently. What gracious lord
is moving as the way, the truth, the word
that was in the beginning? I'm no better
in my stammering than the wild, unfettered
stutters of the birds and frogs. The sword
has pierced the grass, an harmonious chord
describes our relationship. It is wetter
in the low spot with the iris, syllables
litter the old scripture. The wide dome
of heaven seems a vault that is available
for eternal worship. The luminaries roam
the ecliptic, the fires burn as volatile
as the old theology hidden in this poem.

The steeple stretches up into the soft

The steeple stretches up into the soft
heaven, the spires cannot help but believe
in the changing clouds. I can see her lift
herself above me just like the broad curve
of the sky hangs over the land. I've solved
the mystery, I've grabbed the slight waist
and taken her. O what worship is given
to the day by the birds! O how I thirst
for her flesh, the dark plum of her breast
under a new disguise! I watch her stand
in the warm light, I watch the turning mist
caress her shoulders. I can feel the sand
turn into glass. She lays across the couch
and is the tabernacle that I'm touching.

I've trembled underneath the vibrant touch

I've trembled underneath the vibrant touch
of her soft fingers. The patterns of the shells
and the lapping of the ocean, the soft couch
holds her warm body and I begin to smell
her neck under dark hair. The words are spelled
by the stars, the light falls down and I taste
the heavens gratefully. The ocean swells
with the light of the Moon: the quiet artist
counting out months. I trace around her waist
and hip, I hear her breath, I start to see
the purple of a new dawn. She is the pace
of the morning bird's song, the wide sea
cannot contain her. I squint through the sheer
veil and then testify to what I've heard.

I feel the warm light and begin to know

I feel the warm light and begin to know
her surfaces and figures, the cucumbers
and tomatoes burst. I step into the shallow
water of the bayou and try to remember
the timbre of her sleeping. The unnumbered
mystery revolves about me: in the grooves
of the pasture I can see reflected amber
and turquoise. I have forgotten to prove
the sovereignty of the Sun. Her light drives
the flowers from the soil, I can't forget
the golds and purples. She is come to shove
me down into the thick mud as the target
of her arrows. I begin to feel the relief
of grasses that have begun to believe.

I wondered how the little singing bird

I wondered how the little singing bird
knew where his nest was. The tall oak trees
seemed so confusing as a chorus of bugs
filled the air with songs. I see a bug
crawl into the blue flower, the blue bird
takes sticks to its nest. I can see the tree
begin to open as a flower, this tree
receives the Sun gracefully. Little bugs
hide in the grasses and another bird
jumps, a bird sings with the tree bugs.

The shallow puddles have whispered a story

The shallow puddles have whispered a story
between the oaks and pines. I can't tell
what's real and what isn't, I have written
about the wandering stars. The lights write
in misunderstood languages another story
that we've interpreted. The birds have told
the branches their religion, the bugs tell
the grasses of their art. I have to write
her out so I can know her. The histories
are a story we have told in writing.

The clouds are words I have to reasonably

The clouds are words I have to reasonably
believe. I don't know which direction is
up or down, where thought ends and language
begins. The rain is falling in a language
that is misunderstood by a failing reason
and unbridled skepticism. The water is
the muttering of the land, a chant that's
mumbled of the high things. This language
understands our thinking, or is reason
dead? I believe that reason is language.

I had to squint my eyes to get the color

I had to squint my eyes to get the color
perfectly right. I hope to somehow bring
a patient love to the mysterious tailor
that fashions all things. In a fresh spring
I taste her skin, her lips: I cannot bring
myself to leave her. The yellow flowers
sit on the sides of the bayou and the rings
of chimes dance in my ears. How she lowers
herself above me is an occult power
that none can divine! I move in the room
as if it were her body. There's no answer
to a love like this: beyond the blooming
of each blue iris. I have begun to play
with her like the Sun plays with the day.

I press my lips up to the opened front

I press my lips up to the opened front
of the instrument and then begin to share
a song. The air becomes delicately bent
and changes tone, I'm breathing out the air
and making sounds. I have imagined hair
as a veil or curtain, as an obscure, heavy
fog mystifying things. The Sunlight glares
around the edges of her when its daily
rise begins. For I am justified by every
curve of her body, the lithe and strong
muscles of her thighs: how they are married
to her hips! I had my face in the longing
sighs of her love. I can hear the wind
picking up in the back of my mind.

The music of a freshly fallen rain

The music of a freshly fallen rain
comes in the window. The extending crop
of sugarcane has rows like the quatrains
of an older sonnet. I can hear the drops
collect on the soft leaves before they stop
when they hit the ground. The drops that fall
in patterns from her breast, the little loops
of hair that glow in the light that spills
over her shoulders. I hide from a squall
and light another candle as the water
rises. The line of showers has stalled
above us and I move about to gather
blankets. She moves as if without form
through the phrasing of a thunderstorm.

The skinny pines, the ripeness of the peach

The skinny pines, the ripeness of the peach
and the backs of her thighs. I see a new sign
and symbol in the twilight and the teaching
of a prior scripture baffles me. The pines
are tall and thin, the stretching of their lines
fills out the horizon. Beloved, the white sand
and blue water are the resplendent shrine
in which we worship: look how high the grand
cathedral rises! I gaze through the strands
of her dark hair and across her moistened lip
as she whispers something. The trees demand
the faith of the Sun when my beloved slips
between my fingers. I can't help but blurt
out poetry that is the nonsense of hearts.

How is it that I always thought of love

How is it that I always thought of love
as a feeling and not as a humble service
or clearest knowledge? The poems I wove
and disassembled, the wide and quiet curve
of the heavens moving indistinctly: carve
the apples into shapes resembling heaven
and ascend spheres. How is it I've observed
the bugs and birds but haven't been forgiven?
How is it that the movement of the seven
luminaries only occults things? I chime
like a struck bell, I sing in the uneven
verse of those not published. The few rhymes
that populate her songs describe a sheep
that wandered as the shepherd fell asleep.

The curved fingers of a bunch of bananas

The curved fingers of a bunch of bananas
fill up the brown bag that she is carrying
through the spring air. I hear the sultana
singing lullabies, biting into strawberries
and licking her lips. The blue jay has buried
its nest deep in the vines, a quiet beer
smell fills the room subtly. On the ferry
across the river she asked if she could steer
a vessel through the air like birds. So near
to my poor heart I hold her, the old drugs
and diagnoses fail us. I've seen the seer
meditate on the mountain, sit on the rugs
and become the first fruit. Through each part
of her body I become confused by art.

Wandering without the law, without truth

Wandering without the law, without truth,
without sense or grammar, without published
argument or doctrine. The wide, wet mouth
of heaven swallows planets, it establishes
their cycles within time. I haven't polished
the pearls or gems for her, I have but lied
to keep what I've desired. I don't relish
in the weakness of my self, I have sighed
and failed throughout love's trials. I die
to live more fully, pass the words over lips
and into the dim world. I have been tied
to the textile of the ancients, in her slip
she whispers prayers. I move my poor tongue
to be made perfect in weakness as I belong.

The first ripe fruit of the silent way

The first ripe fruit of the silent way
escapes expression by the tongues of fools,
philosophers and theologians. The wide day
cannot be distinguished from night, the schools
of stars swim in the heavens. Within woolen
garments she warms herself before my eyes
can make sense of the image. The poor tools
of poets and of mystics, the colorful dyes
and the unfolding fabrics. The tree tries
to grasp the sky, the leaves move left to right
then right to left. I see the blue bird fly
into its nest and sing without a thought
or argument. The ripe and orange Sunrise
reveals the land disclosing mysteries.

I'm listening for a vowel that will teach

I'm listening for a vowel that will teach
the mountains to be humble, teach the rain
to fall on tender plants quietly. To each
seed is given unfailing love, the plains
breathe with the swaying grasses in quatrains
and tercets deftly figured. I have viewed
the dance of branches as all that remains
of the first language. Words descend like dew,
like showers on new grass, the birds that flew
into the vines brought twigs. The new grass
was pulled up to the Sun, the light drew
the flowers to its hearth. I see the glass
move as a fluid slowly. O I have wanted
to be like abundant rain on tender plants!

I couldn't see, I couldn't really believe

I couldn't see, I couldn't really believe
how the color filled the air. The awful virtue
of a righteous god, the faithless love failing
us religiously. I couldn't see, I couldn't
whisper or recite your name without falling
over myself, stumbling on ego, mumbling
and stammering violently. The immeasurable
grace, the ascending spheres and faith alone
sustain me here. I live by faith, not sight;
and all that's seen reveals the mysteries
of various sects, the failures and the sins
of righteous men. Though our lips can only
stammer, we yet chant the high things of God
variously. I could but reasonably believe.

The law is made not for the righteous: break

The law is made not for the righteous: break
the bounds of language recklessly and rebel
against strictures of grammar! I can't speak
without faith, I can't rise above the level
of the ocean without god. The land funnels
the waters to the gulf, the ancient gods
hear prayers muddled in temples. I channel
the light of the Sun like a ruler's rod
glows with the heat of flames. In the odd
signature of time I'm assailed by the sin
of a falling hail, the failure of a period
and age that's closing. The luminaries spin
in nonsense patterns over my suffering body
while my heart longs for anything holy.

It was like the trees had opened their hands

After Spencer's 'Happy ye leaves! whenas those lily hands'

It was like the trees had opened their hands
for the breeze and clouds. The mysterious might
of weather rolled across the land in bands
that seemed of a purple hue to my poor sight
then faded into dim orange. The Sun's light
reveals the faith of flowers as I look
out past the bayou. I've muttered the infinite
so poorly, stammered through invented books
and praised inadequately. Love, sin has shook
my limbs as if they're branches in the twist
of storms. I dreamt an angel came and took
my hand, shouldered burdens, gave me bliss
I couldn't measure. The trees stand alone
and whisper with the mud about no one.