Whatever I see and hear

Whatever I see and hear
becomes obscured by tasting
her. I'm moving to touch
the sky like flowers smell

the heavens. The mere smell
of her mystery is heard
in the verses that I touch
reluctantly. What I taste

is blushing fruit, it tastes
like a brief dream of scent
and secret. What I touch
becomes a prayer I hear
poorly.

The day in night, the bottom in the top

The day in night, the bottom in the top,
a word of nonsense, spirit in material,
fire in ice, sweet bitterness, an opposition
of harmonies, suns reflecting their moons;

the subject in the object, the second person
confused with the first, the lesser vehicle
seems greater, the semblance of illusions
resembled in deconstructions of delusion.

I slept and woke, I dreamed while awake
of a dawn at Sunset, an image of ideas
or a figure representing the holy ghost.

But contradiction, juxtaposition, paradox
and riddle are the only means by which
we may believe in what escapes knowing.

Is it love or a confused mental illness

Is it love or a confused mental illness
that draws me to her unidentified face,
that finds me intoxicated with an ideal
spun about me in bewildering symbols?

Is it love or an intoxicated testimony
whose rays assail me with gathering tempests,
whose name betrays me in the mutterings
of the theologians and forgotten poets?

Time goes by and continuing obsessions,
delusions, addictions, and pathological
afflictions invite in awesome oblivion.

But is the truth of love a simple thing
beyond mere words and sense, and is love
the astrolabe of God's terrible mystery?

He was no more than a mere man in whom

He was no more than a mere man in whom
the word dwelt, in whom scandalous crimes
converted the catechumens to the faith,
and he himself obtained glorious eternity.

He was no more than a temple in whom
many gross errors concerning the mystery
of the trinity operated, being clearly
fearless of danger deposed in his place.

But he baptized the weak, governed the church,
strengthened the episcopal house, had recourse
to the emperor who gave an order to him.

He ought to encourage us under all trials
to begin to feel the tread of a god-man,
and find him sharing the burden with us.

At dawn I dream of hands

At dawn I dream of hands
reaching for me. The top
of the sky counts the feet
of a verse from the bottom

of the ocean. Her bottom
gasps at the touch of hands
and lips. She puts her foot
on the wall near the top

of the bed. Her lucid top
gathers under the bottoms
of her two enduring feet.
Under the yoke of her hand
I awake.

Thus not a star will remain in the night

Thus not a star will remain in the night
clothed in the veil of a thin, low cloud,
and expressing the sum of the universe
in the rich violet of a ripened plum.

Thus the navy dye will wash over us
in movements and will obscure the vault
of heaven with it opaque layers, a work
gestural in its secretive impressions.

For now a white moon is peeking through
the thin sleeves of atmosphere, revealing
the nothingness of light beyond limits.

Those suggestions of color have testified
to the creative power of a resplendent gaze
that realizes images in brush strokes.

Poetry is sent in by you, is everywhere

Poetry is sent in by you, is everywhere,
is powerful, connected, published, sacred,
banned, increasing, plucking at the women
built like that. Poetry is driving me mad,

is redundant, often understood to be about
the objections of an academic pursuit,
complete nonsense, a useless political act,
a destructive force, the drug of choice.

But the sudden process found in passion
is for real people everywhere, is more than
words, is written from a shameful disease.

Thus poetry is your life, is driving everyone
crazy, is the wordless strength of real people,
is the place for you to build something.

I believe in one movement, the existence

I believe in one movement, the existence
of love, creator of the sky and the ground
and of all things visible and invisible.
I believe in the only-begotten universe,

begotten by the true love before all ages,
by whom all things were moved; who for us
and our salvation came down, was adored
and revered by those receiving his love.

He set, was buried and then rose again
according to the mystics, and sat at the
right hand of the ghost. He came in glory

to know the living and the dead, and his
kingdom shall have no end. I believe in
the hidden name of this holy movement.

The stars, the sky, the elements employed

The stars, the sky, the elements employed
all their light to limit the oak trees,
the yellow flowers, the banks of canals
and the broad bayous stretching to the gulf.

The work, so noble, graceful and so rare
as to slip through the fingers of a poet
searching images, to remain mysterious
despite volumes of trusted propositions.

The air, the church of the bending rays,
the declining Sun, and the blinking stars
render a figure that is incomprehensible.

There no desire can be felt, no appetite
can be satisfied by the whirling light
descending spheres so musically arranged.

Your restless eyes had first deciphered her

Your restless eyes had first deciphered her
in a sequence of graphemes, in the grammar
of a complete thought, in the organization
of light on the leaves of a water oak.

Your restless eyes had first comprehended
her in the various chapters of a story,
or the footnotes of a Maimonides comment
from a culture obscured by the centuries.

But the faith that you had in your knowledge
was tested by the mystery, by false witness
rendered in a poet's scattered verses.

Thus the only reasonable thing to believe
is that an apprehension of her is not
possible within the confines of reason.

Instruments played by none but the wind

Instruments played by none but the wind
and the changing weather, without time
nor measure. The songs begin and end
in intervals between the bell's chime
and the call to prayer. I hear sounds
and melodies, triangular sets of notes
in harmonies that the musicians found
representative of character. She wrote
her music in such a way that it touched
my ears and heart at once, she's singing
a knowledge beyond man. But I have much
to learn from her soft silence that brings
unfailing love. The spheres are spinning
a phrase that travels on a changing wind.

A wash of blue or brown, a mist ascends

A wash of blue or brown, a mist ascends
the weather in degrees. I see a subtle
line develop contrast on the horizon
as the symbols revolve in the heavens.

The marsh grass and the trees stretch up
into the endless sky, a messy contour
confuses the eye and I can't apprehend
the sense of the image that is built

with a suggestion of color. Her hand is
moving quickly, always upon some task,
yet performing without any effort.

Thus what is rendered is more than the sum
of its parts, is more than the analyzed
surfaces of a quickly painted canvas.

We've shown clearly the signs

We've shown clearly the signs
to a certain people. The hint
in riddles, proof in symbols,
faith in the disclosed clues

comes to us. She is the clue
behind the clouds, the sign
rehearsed. Within our symbols
is guidance, concealed hints

of instruction. She gives hints
in moons and stars, gives clues
in suns and verses. A symbol
sanctifies us with clear signs
as evidence.

In the name of the father

In the name of the father
he is realized. The son
rises redeemed as a holy
pyramid, an ascendant spirit

referenced. In the spirit
and power of the father,
we go on despite an unholy
utterance. His dear son

wanders without reason
or rhyme, within a spirit
passing. He reads a holy
sign, remembers his father
praying.

I've never seen so beautiful a Sunrise

I've never seen so beautiful a Sunrise
as when the vapor whispered between leaves
of pines and oaks, between the limits of
the quiet bayous lined with yellow flowers.

I've never seen so beautiful a canopy
as that drawn out from horizon to horizon
and filled with dazzling stars: blue, red,
gold and yellow luminaries revolving.

But the broad spectacle of sky that hangs
above us as a screen cannot be described
nor comprehended in a scattered rhyme.

Yet figures abound in a vain attempt
to render this elusive beauty faithfully,
and I still long to see it done somehow.

The expression on her face

The expression on her face
with the parting of her lip
was a secret. I have wasted
my life between her thighs

as testified. Her warm thigh
has been justified by faith
alone. I grab her soft waist
and taste her parting lip,

her closed eye. Blushing lips
separate, I am the highest
cloud pressing into a waist
of sky, unveiling her face
adorned.

On the day that I took up

On the day that I took up
this burden, I looked down
into waters that had left
me confused about right

and wrong. She took my right
hand and then held it up
to the light. We had felt
the soft rain falling down

upon us, rain falling down
gently. Thus I was rightly
transformed by love and left
without words, so caught up
in feeling.

I'm not alone in growing

I'm not alone in growing
old. The seeds I plant
turn into trees related
to your Sunlit body

parts. You are the body
of text that slowly grows
into a god. I relate
to the flowering plant,

to the turning planets
in the sky. Your body
is a calendar related
to ages hence, growing
unnoticed.

I am the brown, wet earth

I am the brown, wet earth
under her feet, the wind
that stokes a tongue of fire.
I am the flowing water

that knows her, I'm the water
that carves the wide earth
into valleys. She's a fire
that feeds on a hot wind

and glows. I am a winding
bayou that houses water
from a cloud. She's on fire
cleansing the humble earth
completely.

The story of a god that I've imagined

The story of a god that I've imagined
in a set of propositions, in a verse,
in a koan or a riddle that's perplexed
a litany of monks. The story of an

author, a creator of splendid refractions
and reflections of light. A story written
but never told, a story told without a
language or a reasonable translation.

This sequence of discrete happenings
realized in some order, the story of
an idol in the figure of a grapheme.

There is no god without you, the breeze
is your messenger, the various books
disclose the surfaces of your mystery.

I see the wandering stars

I see the wandering stars
write words across the sky
after night rain. The Sunset
reveals a crescent Moon,

a prophecy, a new month
described by angels. A star
starts to conjoin the Sun
mysteriously, the skies

turn purple. I see a sky
disclose the white Moon's
reflection, the gold Sun's
focus, and her blue stars'
pattern.

Thus vapor rose and a wading bird flew

Thus vapor rose and a wading bird flew
when the Sun began its rituals. She sang
before the vault of heaven, the declination
or situation of the other stars resolved

before my eyes. The water had reflected
the thought of poets and mystics attempting
to describe the infinite. She had a dream
before my ears, a song before the canals

in various measures. She's the mist that I'm
without, the cloud I'm within, the poem I'm
making of the holy spirit. Yet, the Sun is
robbing the night of various stars, images

and epistles—then a great blue heron decides
to spread its wide wings and begin to pray.

Before the golden one

Before the golden one
had set above the two
of us, we counted three
persons within the four-

sided god. In her five
fingers were the six
repeated evils, seven
classical planets, eight-

fold path. After nine,
the Sun was in the tenth
degree amongst eleven
stars, calling to twelve
disciples.

Some of a violet hue with a thick skin

Some of a violet hue with a thick skin,
some tints of greens and yellows on the edges,
some gradients with pinks, some ochre shades,
some so sweet and so cold, some colorless;

and when the pines stretch into the tall sky
where the luminaries are rising, I am
but a poet without purpose singing within
all these clouds of various spectral color.

Your flavor and your nectar, the fragrance
richer than that of jasmine on the breeze
of a wide gulf; I can taste the value
and contrast of your composition clearly.

Wretched is the poverty of thin branches,
all robustly contoured yet bearing no fruit.

No book that turns a whirling rhetoric

No book that turns a whirling rhetoric,
no nonsense narrative, no set of chapters,
no plot diagram, no storytelling arc,
no situation spelled out on the canopy;

no library that's organized by systems,
no categories, no dense encyclopedia,
no set of volumes alphabetized backwards,
no deciphered graphemes in some order;

no artifact can ever begin to render
the drama of her sense, the creative spiral
of her existence which remains mysterious.

For poets have spent centuries attempting
to write her out or put her into forms,
but none exhaust her confused infinity.

My teacher asked me what I thought poetry

My teacher asked me what I thought poetry
was, what constituted a literary work
where a "special intensity is given to
the expression of feelings and ideas;"

she asked me whether poetry always rhymed
or what different kinds of poetry there were,
and I wondered if the plain language of
a song or a conversation could qualify.

But the rebellious dadaist inside me felt
giving an answer was doing a disservice
to the humble artists singing around us.

I don't know whether poetry should be
something rhythmical and metaphorical
or just the language we're always using.

The language that we use on the corner

The language that we use on the corner,
on every Twitter, in the blogosphere,
amongst ourselves in Gchat conversations,
and in the images we share on Tumblr;

the lyricism in the songs we hear
on the radio every day, in the Bieber
tracks, in remixed mixtapes, in the epic
convolution of a television series;

the ways we look to put a frame about
the things we see as beautiful, the ways
we authorize ourselves in our poor art

obscure the beloved we each remember.
But what is poetry if not a means
by which we realize our future feeling?

When the Sun rises from the purple language

When the Sun rises from the purple language
of night and begins to color the sky red
and orange, my love sighs in the middle of
a brief dream that doesn't make any sense.

When the flowers open as the spring begins,
their yellows, purples, whites, all take in
the light of the governor of the spheres
who every day is upon tasks and in control,

my love sings a song that recalls the voice
of books and scriptures that a foreign hand
has devised with the use of classical figures.

But she is more than rising orbs of light
or opening fragrant petals, I can't apprehend
her in these mere illusions I perceive.

A thin line of gray smoke is moving up

A thin line of gray smoke is moving up
toward the fan, the butts and bottles, chairs
and music ring in the corners of the room
that's littered with inappropriate vowels.

A thick and fluid song flows in between
her lips like water, in between the banks
of a strange river that began somewhere above
the horizon where the mountain touches sky.

I'm without meaning in the versification
of modern poets, in the copyrighted material
and dazzling array of self-published books.

But smoke and water, fire and clouds bring
change to this architecture, and I see her
disclosed in every task, though unsolicited.

Had a vision of circular ruins, copyrighted

Had a vision of circular ruins, copyrighted
material, docents and editors proliferating
at the end of an indeterminate consciousness
realizing itself through social networks.

Saw solicitors publishing content, critics
becoming legitimate, authoritative language
and versification wandering narrative texts
in decadent patterns from without modernity.

But the media were recalled to the texture
of her garment, her voice, to the unveiling
of her reality constructed beyond threads.

The rise of a personal savior of illumined sun
annihilates a bad poet's artifacts, leaving her
in essence beyond the poor vision of prophets.

I rolled over from a serenade into

I rolled over from a serenade into
the pages of a dream, the leaves of trees,
the water in the canals flowed between
the bindings and the syntax. I rolled like

a cloud within the sky, the wheels of a
celestial sphere, the syllables on her
tongue that spell out sūtras. Mudrās were
illuminated by the dawn, illusory

mysticisms rendered fictions. She turned
the page, the leaves, the verse reversed
itself and seemed to mean something. She

was hidden in the corners of the room
obscured by shadows. I rolled over in
her mind as if a nonsense of images.

This changing face of a reflected light

This changing face of a reflected light
that sometimes seems a crescent, sometimes large,
sometimes small, sometimes a growing orb
that waxes and ebbs with the ocean's tide.

This arbiter of weeks and days, of months
and years, this cyclic receiver of light
from the father, this nurturer of emotion
that is rejoiced in every calendar.

Your face has mystified the ascetics
of every tradition and your eyes have held
the attention of poets and theologians

of every faith; for theories do abound
which explicate your secrets, yet I'm lost
within the confusion of propositions.

Now anxiety, depression and obsession

Now anxiety, depression and obsession
assail my heart, guide the tattered sails
to awful shores; now indifferent feeling
destroys my ethics and my orientation.

Now joy and devotion consume my heart
as if it were the kindling of a fire
burning eternally; now various emotions
flood my subtle body without precedent.

Shall I not see the end of oppositions
in my appetites, the end of conflicts
and turmoils, of a changing temperament?

Shall I not see repose and rest as promised
in the scriptures, in the turning poetry
of our faithful, arduous predecessors?

The glittering trees in the subtle dawn

The glittering trees in the subtle dawn
seem to breathe with the dew on their leaves,
the branches are the hours of a clock
the oaks, pines and ashes serve to count

The little birds awake before the dawn
and whisper secrets, songs are made in nests
and water reflects formations of flying
creatures moving above unfolding bayous.

My love for you is beyond time and sense,
is beyond poetry and metaphorical expression,
yet I am compelled to engage in reading;

the egoless and selfless words of flowers
do more to express your immeasurable
quality than even trees beautifully exposed.

These various dreams whirled about my mind

These various dreams whirled about my mind
as suns and other stars in various patterns,
schemes the prophets attempt to interpret
despite the imperfections of their knowledge.

These brief dreams remind me of her eyes,
her hands, her lips, her thighs or her gaze
that reads through foreign scripts and has seen
my sufferings as if they were material.

But I am not the devoted, simple ascetic
meditating in the caves, remaining reluctant
to indulge in the desires of the physical;

yet I pretend to praise her in new ways,
ways no poet has been able to imagine
within their numberless illumined verses.

My treasure made of sugar, my warm heart

My treasure made of sugar, my warm heart
filled with illumined love, my tall vault
of heaven whirling about us in immeasurable
cycles, my pet and ancient hidden scripture;

my heart made of the sweetest barley sugar,
my chocolate, my treasure made of verses
devised with words, my final recipe
and humble student whom I faithfully serve.

There is nothing that satiates me like
your hair and arms, your eyes of glimmering
golden-browns, your gaze that finds the lines

in the composition. There is nothing that
fills me but your love, my perfect treasure
whose beauty is at best incomprehensible.

A fool that suffers an unfailing love

A fool that suffers an unfailing love,
a confused poet that can't tell the difference
between the ocean and the sky, a charlatan
that writes and sings to capture infinites;

an artist that composes several figures
in the style of a xenophile, a rain-loving
writer and philologue, a serious fellow,
a lover amidst the awful trials of being

muttering praises. We yet chant the high
things of God despite our failures, songs
and rhymes, tropes and lines, strophic schemes

of meaning litter the media. We have sung
a verse repeating incessantly, for we
may know her through it and begin to love.

These are my poems for you, the mere words

These are my poems for you, the mere words
carrying scents of flowers, the wide beach
and white sand. Is that the scent of nectar
in the air? The texture of the jasmine

tickles my nostrils. The shadows of her hair
and shoulder write a new language in leaves
and branches. The green is vivid as my love
turns through the pages of the manuscript

from centuries ago. I can't forget her
despite my constant singing. Here are my
vowels in order, my hopes and dreams, my love

in muttered syllables. She is the smell
of deities beyond words, of the jasmine
whispering between the delicate petals.

She took the idea from him, he took it from

She took the idea from him, he took it from
her old book with the folds across the pages
in triangles. He took some words from the
old manuscripts, the parodies of epics

and the metamorphoses. They borrowed text
from a fabric, metaphors from a different
discipline, analogies of mixed media that
were only illusorily dead. She took the idea

from a picture she saw in a magazine that
was on the table at the doctor. He took
his inspiration from a dictionary, conceits

from the classics. We're the borrowed text
of a post-modern admixture, I can hear
the ideas that she hasn't authored returning.

No whirling nonsense of content extends

No whirling nonsense of content extends
further than the interpretation of your
folding verses; no sure hermeneutics
or critical theory may apprehend your

mysteries; no confluence of different
media may illumine your labyrinthine
secrets, your confusing propositions
and delicate demonstrations; no verse,

no poem, no prose selection, no name,
no symbol, no calligram nor diagram
may guide us in a reading of you. I'm

doomed to failure in trying to decode
your infinite majesty, yet I continue
devising strategies and attempting it.

I dreamed I apprehended in a strand

I dreamed I apprehended in a strand
of hair her glorious name spelled a way
that I couldn't recognize. Her soft hand
pronounced the graphemes of a prayer
in another language. I couldn't say
what I had seen yet hoped to immortalize
her grace and beauty. The ruin and decay
of diacritical marks confused the wise
men enmeshed in scripture. I've devised
a script aspiring to give broad fame
to her eyes and lips, for to eternalize
her image beyond myself. Her old names
surround me and the poems can't subdue
my feeling as I imagine her renewal.

No overwhelming shadow, no thick night

No overwhelming shadow, no thick night
can obscure your essence; no hard rain
nor whirling tempest occulting the light
of the Sun can hide you. In the lanes
and alleys you're more obvious than beating
drums and hearts. I can't begin to explain
your ubiquity: you're underneath my feet
and in my lungs as air. The birds cry
into the morning from above the streets
that hold your name. No thundercloud may try
to dissolve your image which the height
of heaven discloses. You're infinite sky
and indefinite meaning. I look to the right
and left and perceive you despite the night.

The spirit in me misses

The spirit in me misses
her body. I have missed
her misnomers and missives,
her soft epistles miss

the point. I start to miss
the sky like rain gone missing
from a cloud. The misshapes
veil her mistakes, I miss

her arguments. The missing
scriptures hold the mission
we forget, a miserable
misguidance. I'm missing
her message.

She turned the page to press

She turned the page to press
the flower. This depression
weighs heavily, compresses
my shoulders. I repress

the meaning that's expressed
in scripture. She's depressed
beneath the standing cypress
knees.The fires oppress

the trees, this life depresses
me. I search the expressions
rendered under the pressure
of air. She smells of pressed
flowers.

I'm drawn to this destructive, violent

I'm drawn to this destructive, violent
intoxication of the 12th house. I'm
without place without madness, without sense
without obsession and addiction. I'm

repeating mental illnesses, crazy
reiterations of weirdness, nervous
neuroses and delusions. I'm moving
toward the flame like a moth that doesn't

care for its own safety. I mutilate
myself, annihilate identities
I used to depend on and find value

in. O god release me from the turmoil
inherent in being! She is a mess
but still I somehow believe in our love.

I'm not trying to invent a new way

I'm not trying to invent a new way
to build a house, to fashion walls and doors,
to inlay windows, to orient a home
for the first rays of a rising Sun;

I'm not trying to pretend that I
can sing without another's trope, can speak
with words that are just mine, can sigh
about a trial of love that no one knows.

I am an instrument of spirit that
dances as it speaks, is filled with the
breath of all breath; I'm inspired to live

neither in temple nor in mosque, to be
without a thought or word: I am servant
of the form that extends beyond me.

The lights wander the sky

The lights wander the sky
in cycles, summer skies
surrender to the skylit
tropes of autumn. Her sky

is limitless, her disguise
confounds poets. The skyline
draws in the gaze of eyes
that are not free. A sky

reveals her thigh, a sky
defines her heart. The skylight
opens to a wide skyspace
defining God—her sky
unfolding.

The recitation elaborates again

The recitation elaborates again
the consequence of Sun rays. The air
is colored by a fog, is yellow then
an orange tint. I remember her there

and here, somewhere within the broken
memory of language. Her skin is fair,
hair an ineffable shade, she is chosen
as the object of creation. We share

images and riddles rendering the gravity
of her fire. I am the dial that shares
her light with trees, with the broad sea

and conspiring rivers. She is the place
I cannot visit, the object that I bear
wandering through a limited space.

Synecdoche, metonymy, cacophonies

Synecdoche, metonymy, cacophonies
of artistry. Remixes of a Petrarchan
virtuosity, the sighs and figures
of literary forgery. The fictions

populating leaves and trees, admixtures
of theory, hypotheses, synthetic
arguments and rhetoric. Spenserian
repetitions in the fractal geometry

of solar systems. Her soul investigates
reverberating vestibules. The entrance
to her heart is restricted like temples

that monitor their witnesses. I invent
narratives, mysterious philosophies
that don't make sense to anyone else.

Why do you close your hand to me despite

Why do you close your hand to me despite
our suffering? Why do we wail apart in
madness, delusion, immeasurable addiction,
seclusion, isolation and depression? Why

might the night pass restless? I plead
and pray, I am not the ninety-nine men
that don't need saving. Is this salvation
ever granted? Do we toil on endlessly

without respite from sin? Without refuge
from the howling, serpentine storm that
assails us? Sometimes it seems an unfailing

love cannot exist. Why do you close your
self before my confession? Am I losing
faith despite long and tremendous effort?

By the mysterious functioning of some

By the mysterious functioning of some
figure of speech she's revealed. I read
between rhetoric and aesthetic a folding
of mirrored garments. She is the context

that gives the phrases and the sentences
meaning. I've divined the sacred sense
of the ridiculous secret that's disclosed
in subtle choreographies. The gross

epistemes, anecdotes and allusions
populate her songs. I am intoxicated
by similes, alliterative sequences

of sound. By the mysterious functioning
of some figure of thought she is known
in the confusing verse of every poet.

This vision in a half-dream I remember

This vision in a half-dream I remember
because I tell the story. She possesses
fire, water, power, air, the ether
thunders with her measure. I'm seeing

her colors and contours, the gentle rising
of her breast with breaths. I've assembled
a figure to represent her curving body,
a horoscope that notes the situations

of planets at her birth. This vision in
the half-awake morning is punctuated
by a few birds singing. She illuminates

and enlightens the narrative, I have
lost my way about her. She is telling
the truth about an ancient mysticism.

She moves disinterestedly away from the

She moves disinterestedly away from the
curator's program. I'm the artist stating
sacraments and rituals, relational
performances of vanity. She is moving

beyond facility, aesthetic or merit,
beyond concept and context. I perceive
an admixture of administered color
that is of no clear artifact. She is

an effervescent love, I feel the spirit
moving in her language. I compose
an engaging instrument from material

transcending the medium. She meditates
and radiates this energy, the rhymes
revolve about her eyes in epicycles.

I oppose the Sun regularly as if I

I oppose the Sun regularly as if I
define its intervals. The complements
build contrast, form is telling stories
within the revolutions. I am counting

her surfaces, her fingers, in her eyes
I'm lost finally. There is a rich blue
or purple tint in the sky before she
falls asleep beside me. I'm in love

without ideas, without images, without
names or symbols. I might participate
like a tritone, a triune god, a trial

of unfailing love. The freedom I feel
comes from service, her tables of worship
illumine the irregularly turning Moon.

The curved path of the Sun

The curved path of the Sun
determines how the day
is shaped. She is a noun
I pronounce in the rays

breaking leaves. Her funny
surfaces are playing
with my eyes, her sunny
limits reveal the way.

The truth is being spun
about us quickly. I'm saying
her name as the light runs
beyond horizons lying
obscured.

I'm the mysterious light

I'm the mysterious light
she pronounces lightly
on her lips. The lighter
breaks as we enlighten

the trees. Her Sunlight
denies my gaze when light
escapes me. I am lit
like the thin candlelights

in bedrooms. The twilight
invites bugs to lightless
corners. I am lighting
the pasture with a light
unmeasured.

I knew it was beginning when the flowers

I knew it was beginning when the flowers
bloomed yellow on the roadside. The day
was wandering with the ladybugs, showers
were undulating. I waited through May

and June to see the fresh opening buds,
the fragrant iris. Her wet eyes shine
beyond her dark hair, and the dark mud
receives her pilgrimage. The decline

of the Sun stretches the tree's shade
toward the horizon. O reveal your face
to me! Never may knowledge of you fade
in seas of inattention! The graceful

petals disclose color. I've breathed
over the surfaces that we both see.

I'm the movement of water. I'm playing

I'm the movement of water. I'm playing
a game of light and space, rendering ways
to square the circle. I love you more
than the monk loves the moments before

Sunrise. I am devoted to your reign
and bask in your dogma. I have drained
the mountains of their color, nations
of their waste. She devised salvation,

redemption, consecrated beyond dispute
and worshiped in all prayer. Her absolute
authority is scattered about the spare
corners of the temple. I am there

in the air like clouds, in the skies
pronouncing mysterious blasphemies.

It was like she was a book. I'm everywhere

It was like she was a book. I'm everywhere
at once, I'm nowhere fast, I'm nothing known
justifiably. I'm what we haven't seen
reflected in the ocean, the full Moon,

her two exposed shoulders. It was like her
mysteries were eternal, in her flowers
I wandered as if the fields were libraries
of ineffable grace. I'm everywhere seen

yet inexplicably forgotten. She understands
persecution, oppression, intoxication,
obession and denial. I'm what we have

interpreted incessantly for centuries
yet never may exhaust. For she's a text
beyond measure of our consciousness.

I'm vapor gathering in the vibrant air

I'm vapor gathering in the vibrant air
on the side of the mountain. I've heard
her art, her heart, the serpent moving
in the shallow grass. I am falling rain,

I can't explain, I adore the sovereign
cycles. Gather me in rivers, streams,
lakes, gulfs, bays, in between islands
and in narrow puddles. I am playing

between the various trees. I architect
homes, I gather Sunlight, I am Sunlit
in the morning gloriously gold. She is

the mineral receiving me, the landscape,
the valleys are her back. Her rolling hip
cascades with thunderings of rich color.

I see

I see
her being
extend.

I intend
a true
love due

to wit.
She commits
to lay

in praise
of an art
departing
fast.

Nothing

Nothing
in Spring's
wild rain

gives, again
her parts
are art.

Her mind
is behind
surprise

Sunrises,
where trials
of sky
meet.

I am blinded

I am blinded
by light my mind
reflects. The rule

of obscure fools
reveals a denied
faith. In my pride

I cannot find
peace. Her soft wind
comes to my defense

at last. The sense
of a straight way
eludes the day's
sight.

The blue bird sings a note

The blue bird sings a note
that rhymes. The pasture slopes
because the water writes
across it. Within the scope

of time resounds the quote
of spirit. The same tropes
repeat, denote and connote,
allude to Alexander Pope's

essays. I check footnotes
for renditions of a hope
unfailing. A cloud floats
and occults the telescope's
vision.

He has delicately mixed

He has delicately mixed
majors and minors, mixtures
of notes fixed. Blues admix
with yellows, a mixable

verse tricks the remixed
artist. Instruments mix
fibers and textures, she mixes
pitches on her face. I mixed

up the words she is mixing
per a recipe: the mixture
depicts her. Timbres mix
until there is no sin mixed
any more.

I am understood by water

I am understood by water
and soil. I hear rainwater
falling, flooding waters
wading under her watery

weather, moving water
on her waist. The waters
filled the watercolor
gradually. I'm watering

her flowers, cool water
moves where the groundwater
gathers. Her soft water
bathes me, I pray water
saves me.

The clothing that she wears

The clothing that she wears
without her. I have wasted
my life, I cannot bear
to bleed within her taste.

The ways that she shows
herself is a memory
too obscure to know.
I've wandered eternity

wide as the contained
crescent Moon. I find
her disclosed in my brain:
demystified, her mind
reading.

I delight in brief dreams

I delight in brief dreams
and madness. The dreamy
surfaces of her dreaming
reflect me. In a daydream

I'm revealed. We that dream
know figures of dreaming
clearly. I have a dream
of rhymes, I am dreamless

yet asleep. We that dream
find talk of the dreamlike
trials of love. I dreamily
taste the nectar of dreams
appearing.

Where do you seek me servant

Where do you seek me servant?
I am in temple serving
you in rites. If I serve
do I get what I deserve

finally? I freely serve
all, and thus I am served
as lord of all. I serve
as a true seeker and servant

that meets you. I am serving
breath in moments, serving
renunciation. We serve
as subject to the service
applied.

The unit seems to apply, also, to

The unit seems to apply, also, to
its meaning for the purposes of the
hearer hearing sounds. The latent meaning
unit already present is the real-

ization irreducible to parts.
As this scholar differentiated
a kind of mental perception which is
new sentences as wholes, we analyze

by splitting it up into words. Oneness,
prefixes, suffixes, the linguistic
view of learning sentences at stages

indivisible. A recognition,
an instantaneous flash whereby the
sentence emerges to express meaning.

The overwhelming sadness

The overwhelming sadness
of empty pages. The sad
letters arranged sadly
in order. Woe is the sad

stricture of grammar, sad
limit of sense. I'm sad
and I weep, I am saddened
by wailing wind. The sad

phrases and clauses, sad
and tired figures. A sadly
postured flower sits sad
and alone. Am I as sad
as she?

The whispering of a story

The whispering of a story
between the leaves: a story
told by a breeze, an historical
mystery. Another story

to tell ourselves, this story
we forget. Hear the storied
glories of the secret story
somehow untold. In her story

we ran to the second story
laughing as the storytelling
unfolded above. The stories
told us a whispered history
remembered.

I am the water that knows

I am the water that knows
the land as rain. I know
the colored sky, I've known
sacred clouds. Nobody knew

her before names, we know
ourselves in words. I know
it now just like I knew
it then, or anyone knows

it, truthfully. The unknown
joyfully escapes knowing,
as is testified. I know
the land as water knows
her lips.

I think I had a thought

I think I had a thought
again. What would she think
of me now that I've thought
about it? Do names think

about themselves? I think
I didn't write my thoughts
out clear enough, I think
I shouldn't think. She thought

without a thought to think
of words to say. I think
I had a thought, a thought
supreme. At least I think
I did.

I'm opening up to feel

I'm opening up to feel
the Sun. Am I feeling
something you don't feel
at all? I start to feel

the warm light. I'm feeling
everything at once. I feel
happiness and I've felt
sadness. Is her feeling

legitimate? A word feels
useless, baseless, I feel
determined. I'm not feeling
anything, does she feel
something?

I wandered in the empty

I wandered in the empty
sky like stars. The empty
vowels filled the empty
words with light. I'm empty

as a cup, I'm empty
as winter trees. I emptied
the fruit of its empty
juice. I hear an empty

philosophy that empties
itself out. I am emptied
of belief, I see empty
eyes wander an empty
image.