October 26, 2015



(the idea of an idea 
itself having an idea, 
is your vulnerable 
wanting a voice too, 
individuation is at first 
an odor that manifests 
itself directly from 
the spirit soup)

sometimes, poem and I
understand being yoked 
embraced, clutching at thirsty words 
most times I write   
from pretense spun 
into tapestries and mythologies 
things I may have stolen 
to bruise the fleshed bits 
caught in my eyes...

sight convinced me
the observers 
outside myself
were saying, 

"the eyes are the Sun 
and the nose is the Moon"...

a poem is fleeting captured life 
just reading the falls 
and daring one's self to believe 
stones and bones 
can be dressed 
in skin glory and sin 
and called a story 
all their own 
thrown, scattered 
and strewn 
we read 
our hap-hazards 
to find repeatable patterns...

a howl-wind night tells me 
the cold is coming 
I am to use gravity's armies 
its unseen electrons 
and porter portal 
massed matter materialization 
mirrors and rabbit holes 
what souls go through
between quantum wobble, 
and a belief in wombs 
and the wave theorized
accordion membrane(d)
dimensions most humans 
sometimes myself included 
do not dare enter alone...

the symphonies I lean into 
are what I consider music to find 
my compass needle's purpose 
in the haystack of chaos 
disguised as modern life 
I search for meaning 
ancient and gleaning
in rivulets 
of hypnotic imagery 
I wrap and riddle 
my fantasy driven mind with
I acknowledge I want to be laced 
with what scent sees
so I place myself 
inside poem's penumbra 
to know the smell 
of all that I surrender to...

like Daedalus, watching Icarus 
just to see, if he can swim...


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