Aum; you extend in an all-meaningful confluence

Aum; you extend in an all-meaningful confluence
Of maps and fictions. When I think I know
Something of you I quickly realize
That all I'm knowing is my language-self.

I meant another object in a time
Without a time; an other subject out
Of time with this or that or out of order,
Expressed so far-removed from understanding.

Beloved, I move in you in a sense
That you are this dull language I inhabit
When seeing, knowing, thinking or being;

I laugh because the verse is turning while
The Sun is turning with the silver Moon
Reflecting back a personality.

An ever-conscious ocean to the South

An ever-conscious ocean to the South
Is warmed by the mid-heaven transiting Sun
Inspiring the growth of various clouds
Which congregate and circulate within

The medium between illumined heaven
And the gross, dark, solid, confused earth.
Sometimes we think the changing faces of
Those clouds, whether they're full-grey with rain,

Or slight and white in tufts--effervescent--
Are all there is to the brief dream we wander,
Speaking in a curious vernacular.

But really there's no difference between the
Thin clouds and the vast ocean in itself--
Expanding and contracting infinitely.

Amused in a brilliance, confused in the whirling tumult

Amused in a brilliance, confused in the whirling tumult
Of syllables constricting a metaphysical meaning
Explicated in several voluminous chapters
By the plurally-initiated Jesuit, René Guénon.

Polysyllables in a polysymphony;
In came the gurus with tabla, tambura and trance
And out went my consciousness, quite like the fizzling lamp
Set in the darkness of a temporal camp.

Lines are extending in the indefinite distance
While my sacred beloved naps on a bed of leaves
And dreams of an absolute silence without self.

I'm laughing across a piano and into a room
Where a clock counts the hours and the repetitive Sun
Bleeds in through a window in discernible beams.

Above a drone, I imagined her in

Above a drone, I imagined her in
The shelving of my mind, traipsing about
The content in a seamless sort of dance,
Being the word I'm here hopelessly reading.

When I had first apprehended that light
I thought I must have deluded my self
Because it seemed so brilliant it was hard
To find a language representing it.

And still I'm looking, yearning; in the curves
Of opened books I think I catch a fragrance
Of folding nectar, Arabic dialects,

Several foreign vowels enunciated
In a pattern lithely choreographed
In a nonsense language of full disclosure.

Language? I will giggle like the girls

Language? I will giggle like the girls
When he tries to make sense of all of this
Dull rhetoric (a mess, if you ask me),
Supposing it an infallible system.

Is it the irony of revolution
That what seems to replace one program
Is in itself identical to each
Delineated ethic coming prior?

Duchamp had said that art is but a game
Between all people of all different eras,
And I guess none of the rules ever change.

What doesn't change is that it's always changing
And it's the change that makes me really laugh,
Amused by what we must put into language.

Loving the way you breathe, I forgot

Loving the way you breathe, I forgot
To punctuate my self or make any sense
Of this or that or consonantal sounds
Arranged in ever-varying collections;

Wait--I think I heard an other song
Somewhere around the corner or like how
The dogs will hear a sound that we just can't;
I guess I'm hearing something that you're not.

Ha! All that you're not! Beyond the veil
Is something surer, sweeter, than a plum
And of a purple hue on the inside.

The gesture of her body made a sound
In harmony with the just, revolving planets
Wandering in epicyclic aspects.

O when I turn the air about my tongue

O when I turn the air about my tongue
Into a set of shapes and collections
Of sound that are interpreted by grammars
Someone supposed many quick Moons ago;

O when a spirit moves into my body
As if it were the air drawn through a flute
Resounding; when I don't know who I am
Is when I voice the most marvelous music.

"Give me life!" a flower begs the Sun
When she is opening a dozen petals
To that wild proliferation of light;

I realize a rose. Make sense of love,
Make love of sense, make fun and when we're done
We're held by a simple conversation.