Driving

All of once you burst through the mountain's shadow
to swim in a world of such heavy, golden light
you can scarce believe you've breathed a lifetime
here without drowning.

4.12.3

The light has come a while to stay,
has driv'n away those meaner thoughts
which in the dark do love to play,

as we in bow'r and bunker lay
we dwell in lands which fear has wrought
and find no rest to end our days.

We wake, though, to delightsome rays:
the sun god sings so bright and hot.
His dancing self we live to praise,

And live we do, until he wanes.
Then quick into our narrow cots
with quaking zeal once more to pray,

that troubled dreams might slip away,
and dawn come quick, that pleasing shock.
We then all tithes would gladly pay.

But it is not the Master's way
to clear our path of stumbling blocks.
He rather fills our nights with pain,
that we e'er hopeful must remain.

2.24.7

I.
Once, the sun struck a tree of cherry blossoms
and they shone like dancers in the spot light,
stretching that crystalline silence before the show
'till our hearts would break out our chests.

"This must be what it is like to be a poet,"
I thought,
"Comparing one thing to another until all things are beautiful."

II.
Once, I counted my breath up past one thousand,
and my soul ascended with the count,
'till it sang in harmony with the sun and the stars.

"This must be what is it like to be a poet,"
I thought,
"Sharing my soul with all things eternal."

III.
Once, I carried an empty book on all of my travels,
and wrote its pages full of words and words.
I wrote when my soul sang and when it sank.
Mostly, I just wrote.

"This I what it must be like to be a poet,"
I think.

4.8.1

I wake: the sun has touched my face,
the warmth of burning Gold.
I sleep: this rotting, fallen state,
this dimming, dying world.

The Lord it took but seven days
all glory to create.
But mortal glory e'er will wane
as dawn approaches night.

4.8.2

This is how the summer went,
a year of sun in single season spent,
that dark might reign, and cold--
that at last we might grow old.

1.

There is a rock
that straddles order and schock--
that floats the film,
ever so ethereal,
between form and free.

I stretch my hands,
they are strong and good.

There is only art 'twitx me
and my soul.

2.

We meet as the shadows of the heart,

caught and froze on white sheaves with black ink.
We see through a novel darkly--
cary the scaffold of form before our eyes--
impose line on cycle.

We meet as shadows of the heart
and stay such, 'till the puppeteer deem fit.

3.

I am between things.

Stood as a stalk between wind and water--
a smothered dress between lovers.

I am between this and that,
will become either when I move--
when I step, or I fall, into the concrete storm,
motionless in fury--
furious in silence.

The ringing in my ears is no song.

Triad

I

We have built a blind god

I have no interest in my generation

the same sun burns me as built babylon.

We split the alter and cary it in our pockets

These kids have pulled their eyes out for sockets

As have I, the all seeing eye.

II

I dream of pixels of far reaches of the earth

As though I did not live here

And walk upon it to get groceries

Lest I die of sloth.

III

Time was a good old lady, punctual.

She died.

Her grandaughter is filling in.

She's often late.