The textures of time,
decipher the dream,
in rhythms that ricochet spiraling seams.
What we call Light
is a limit of sight.
Heaven’s wave breaking
on shores of the night.
The fractures then found,
from oceans of sound,
will pulse those
proportions and temper distortions;
in our nest of the Now.
The buzz of what was,
Lingers long alongside,
All that never was and ever could be.
Mutating the obvious
To hybrid circumstance.
An alien fruit,
Ripe for the picking.
Waiting in the cracks that shine,
Out from a midday’s wounded rhythm,
Or from a bright night’s lunar schism.
Between the beats of a wind-waving leaf,
Inside the pregnant power
Of an early morning’s
Poise of Promise.
Searing souls share into the void.
In a relay rediscovery
Of the portending Omnipresent.
Reaching through the hum
Of what’s ever due to come.
What soul speaks,
Sounding deep through the dream,
Of a tenebrous, light-weaving, star-pleated seam?
Do its words fill the hours, defining our days?
Or does it tell of a time that may seem but a maze?
Worlds linked in ways, we wonder, waking, why?
Summoning strange gods from aethers far and nigh.
Which eye sees?
When the world’s but a gem…
Refracting all time through oceans of our ken.
We parlay our heart on distant moments’ thought,
Through folded inner space as orphan dreamers sought.
Lurid overtones whose senses wait in wing,
A severance to the sources that made our pattern cling.
(Layer upon layer, that hide in the air,
Forgetting the stair that lifted them there.
All rendered clean from dimensions unseen,
Forgetting the words from which they weaned.
A sundry expense, while we’re further entrenched,
But the game changing sign reminds us of time.
Returning rotations catch every sensation,
From under the sun, all reaping the fun,
We rise to the nexus, as unified sexes,
And sink to the heart of what kept us apart.
All moments suspended, forever contented).
Which time wakes?
Which level loves and sings?
Which heart is free, yet resonates all things?
How far back does the meaning want to go?
How long’d it take to make it to this show?
Somehow we take a leap of faith and hew
A world all of our own, a life forever true.
Point of Passion
Stratified sails of un-impelled Delight
March boldly across the surface screen
Between this frictionless scene
And the unabashed antinomy of our faces
Tracing contours of the knots
Whose strands start to slide
And shift the meaning winds
That so long carried us
In parallactic fugue.
Precipitous longing caves in
So heavy and contained
It breaks the symbol hull.
That long encrusted defense
Against the relentless waves
Finds its always been carving
Its shape from their troughs.
The cavity of a gathering force
Finds its space within
The spin and slide
Of an amorphous pounding tide
Where sense now rides with soul
And the sea confounds the sky
What was and is a dense and dark reflection
Now tweaked and churned
A working wheel of light
To irrigate our life.
All transdermal solicitation
All porous incongruity
Becomes deferring unity.
Endless endings lapping
Against the shores of
Our eternal Identity.
Oh fire of life,
Oh waves of condensing, spiraling time;
Burning arriving, like dreams spilt from Giants’ cups,
Second hand revelations from indifferent libations.
A fire-water heat wave;
Ripple sparks from an ancient-future revelry.
Like a joke long forgotten to its sounders,
Whose laugh reverberates with the echoes of its dissemination;
A gathering pun, whose meaning is consumed, dispersed
Into the effulgent rhapsody of One ex-temporizing gene.