Surreal Discipline

When you observe
potential becomes.  Before
you see it all things jabberwocky
a state of good and evil.  You must
become a stranger to yourself, this world
to seize it. 

Wax Birds

Something about you flying through
a fire of dream, your complexity
Icarus and the wing gliding
then glowing then silent.

In a sky where connecting, unless
you forget or fall away, a type of duality
birth and dying, blossoming borrowing
of metaphors, clouds, pillows, swords,
above the frenzied city or storm, thrilled,
invisible, no shape
shame or ancestry.

Like flying.

See how immortals fuse their children to feather,
fasten them to eternal joy
while the blind, wax birds
are torched.

 

Impossible Instruction

I know you're in there
somewhere;  your incessant
murmuring, a restless stone
in a deep well.

It's too late to be admonished
or desired.  That skein has
shed.  All prophets eventually

sample the sweetmeat,
the core without
its hard, brown shell,

leave a written critique
taped to the backdoor.

Even I am tired of speaking
in riddles. 

Some Things Appear But Aren't Apparent

Vacuum scrunched
and violently squashed,
held down, transported

face cheeks
pressed to a flat,
iridescent surface

the consistency
of stars

only one eye
can search for
understanding

in its limited
environment.

I have come to
recognize,  science
is noose and

God is the black
hooded executioner

on this side.

Have you ever seen
a face so contorted
with passion

it looks like
anger

or a bird suspended
in such a way
you can't decide

whether its ascending,
floating or falling?

Reduced

Are we insatiably damaged? 

Nothing tastes like
sugar, water and basil
heated to crystal

or smells like red
wine and beef blood.

New scorched sweet,
same tart, rich soul.

Now I can only advise you:

You should try to get
your organic back.

In a beach house
with a blue door
in silhouette

a blonde boy
with ringlet curls

evaporates

like boiled
whiskey.

Rears Its Majestic

It's unlikely light would stay
attached to moon if not for
its suspicious nature;

inside each cloud
a core of black,

a pack of wolves.

Every night shadow
performs Shakespeare
reciting damning verse;

fields cling
to sky's dresses like

frightened girls.

What hunts or flies
or runs has no need
for ambiguous inquiry:

who will bury them,
what is their mysterious
duty, to whom should

they pray?

To them Eternity
speaks the language
of wild horses,

rears its majestic,
burning chest

without fear or
hesitation

gallops away.

How Movement is Like Prayer

always the question,
to build straight
or round.

On some level, darkness
meets light, electrons pairing
charge to zero;

in the stable gap between

a tiny, faux
world made of rubber bands
and ink and water

wrapped in sticky
web. 

A subtle movement
somewhere

vibrates the body,
the body attracted-

the sleeping
glittery spider.

The Cold Follows You

I had the same dream
of a man with a body
made of winter gloves;

he followed me through
half of my childhood
without ever speaking.

Sometimes at night,
the darkness takes the shape
of a great wooly beast

hunting

in a snow storm.

Don't Let Your Gifts Deceive You;

you didn't make this world,
its rare spices, thick sweet
oils, its brief guests

and countless dead.

Pleasure and grief are meant
for those who create them
not for those who discover.

Consider the bed without
its lovers, your muscles,
my bruises, our early

morning prayers.