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.