~~FlowingOm~~

Spaces between the branches
Of the trees in your eyes
Quavering and wild


Sing


I am blind


Everything flaunting
The soft underbelly
Of the heart


A door
Into screaming vision
Drenched in ecstasy


A shadow
Flutters in the ocean
Of your breath


Exquisite spasms
orgasm
Of this moment


The silk of the snakes tongue
Whispering lost songs
Into the arch
Of my thigh



I am lost
Fading transparent
Before your gaze
Limpid beneath your touch


The velvet bark
Of willows
Remember soul songs
And crumbling walls
Quavering and wild


Scorched branches in your
Watering eyes
Dead quiet

Madness, my sage,


I am watching you
From ancient worlds
A shadow you could reach


Out and in
Touch as expansive as skin
Ink to keep us safe


I am secret and falling
These are not my words


Epistemic slumber
Copulation of chaos and order
Black seeds open the white flower


I am lost
In the bitter pink pulp
Flooding fingertips


Is this what you wanted?


In the lost city
When eyes turn so
And it is you
Watching from afar


Heart pounding blood
Through my muse
Eyes through twisted portal
Naval window
Opens atop my head


This other madness
Comes
Like this
Like shape shifters
In old mirrors
Dank and pristine

With love,

shattering

from 1998


that opening where horizons merge
where colors blend
into a fold
that is more
unfolding
into a deep song falling
through the memories
of a thousand mythic stars
from where i emerge
from labyinths enveloped
enveloping


where colors slip from my skin
a night sky reaching for dawn
the blood beneath the skin
on the back of my hand
is the breath that carries rivers
to soothe the infants of autumn


i am slipping silk among the landscapes of mirror
green and as far as eyes can see
a cacophony of life pulsing
the brilliant silence


drifting as hand to drum
towards heart and birth
before illusion draped over
were mistaken for time
that opening where the sun kisses sun
upon water kissing sky


it has been my experience
of mountains
of waterfalls and streams
against my skin
among my porous heart
a deep song


vivid colored labyrinths
the center everywhere
everywhere mirrors
threaten the wind


and all we’ve been taught falls away
leaving only
that small infinite place
where horizon embraces horizon

i see trees through my body
rich fields fecund soil
the scent of my blood


i am every thing
i am no thing
dancing illusions beginning to end
birthing phantoms
caressed thresholds
of i am

The plan
Or lack there of
Is like the forgotten
Potted plant on the step
Brown and wilting
a reminder noticed daily
put off until the next moment

Not as strong as the streaming sunlight

And spontaneity
Is often confused
With the tangential nature
Of a mind
That cannot focus
For long
On one thing

As the next shooting star
The endless loop
Of ever changing
Synaptic waterfalls

Nonetheless
Lists of plans
bloom from my fingertips
A plethora of planned buds
Winged and winded

This, this, and this
A breeze catching
Surprised awareness
So busy
forgetting
no thing is arrant

The past
Once flaming, searing,
so heavy handed
Now sanguine, fleeting,
a feathery touch
What shaped me
slips quiescently
into my depths
The space created
for now
Frees me
Seeing clearly
just how good things are
And I understand
The need
for a different muse
A changed one
The present

some written words
leave me deaf
hold me mute
so that I can inhale
worlds
through the pores
of me eyes

some written words
make the worlds
fall away
so that I may travel
beyond my own story

Life waits inside us
On the precipice of a metaphor
We are everything
We are nothing

Life dances around us
We are infinite blooms of perception
(These blooms await our trampling)
Porous and fecund
Hopelessly nearsighted
yet seeing far

Life lives in volition
our action
our stillness
our quiet
our song

blood and dreaming
orchid eyes of night
fire coral caress
burning burning bright

blood and fire
adrift upon the memory
all we will be
burning burning bright

dark shadow surrender
red tears and falling
calling what has lost us
burning burning bright

blood and spire
crumbling ghosts
misbegotten scenes
burning burning bright
amputated dreams

they never told me; that the
early morning birdsong
would leave me
falling across the skin
of the mountain; dreaming
the Sun’s first breath

I discovered early
I was allergic to clowns; as they were
larger than the TV images
of childhood;
on the back of a horse
amazing feats of freedom
salve of my childhood;
I discovered too late -
after I had traded
the race through the trees
to the serene fields
of apples and books
for the phosphorescent
rebirths in back seats
of cars; the torn dress
never quite
the woundless drumfire
of blatting winged hooves
on soil
oblique disciple of steeds
I discovered too late
I was allergic to clowns



photo credit: www.tomchambersphoto.com