1.

In the miracles of shape and form

The seditious emptiness of

Silence is born--zygote--

And will hold it's time

In the form of a crystal

Epistle- in all violence.

Is contained the form

Of beauty;

The downard motions

Of its upward rooting

The bejeweled truth

Gleams-- the inessential

Rotation, the sidereal

Speech of empty

measuring

The surfaceless intrusion

Of flawed black

Into the slack and heavy

Blackness, into the

Stardust sparseness

The night is the foil of

All beauty into the

Darkness

Beyond measuring, the trembling

Gamete-- the trembling Garnet

Of the beauty of night --

Preemptively discarded.

A warning to the guarded.

Oh,

Kitharode, Luthier, Psallien-

The involuted air, in which

The pink of autumn has

Fallen in. Each instrument's

Voice cressing through it

A new catastrophe

Of rest, duress, and movement

It was that which the air became

At that moment, and every moment

After. The audience had endured the

Show--

Cortage,

suspense, and the tremendous

Dimeundo of an audience's

dispassionate applause

Solipsist! Solipsist! Yourself the

Locus Solus of what 'solace' is

Cronos, Cronos, faltered wit

That fathered it must have been

Yourself -- and now that time

Has had its time and space

To spin, you do not have to

Be any Shakespeare, any Bard

To catch the drift of it-

Everyman's virility and vinity

Falls to you- specious deity

Cyanotype; the Darkness ingressing inside it

Already, Iron blueness- last Toxicity

Of art- that had ran darker than the

Paints that melded their way

Past the skull's frame into

Van Gogh's brain-

Oh yes- it had melted, then melted away

Like Crows feast on Purple Plantain

They will wait until we become empty

To nest within us-

We are empty as the Scarecrows

Of Ernst- that never wore shadow

Og form or ribcage to force a

Pecking shape of thought away-

Eons later

The art historians had announced

They had found us Caulked beneath

The blue of the Wheatfield for

Crows, the buried forms of the

Spectators, the audience

That had not been there to

To shield him from any of it.

The human form that would have

Made things more than a landscape,

With a noose.

Become

Pillars to wield the silences

Of amphitheaters before they would

Have crushed him shapes of dreams

Dark saccades of sleep beneath

Every mound the Shadows

Odilon's Caliban is burrowing.

Take a walk outside- beneath the

Purple sky- the shrill air

Would touch you to your bone.

You were the audience- that

Were asked for- you were

Made of straw, you were nothing

Be grateful for the feeling of the

Cold, without it you'd

Be as empty, as feelingless

As the painting without audience.

The things hidden in the dust

This undelivered half

Were delivered to absolution

To sunlight in the Lithograph

And so without you, or anyone

To see what it was he'd done

And so without anybody to see

And mind swarming with

Turpentine and Thujone and

Lead he took the silver handle

And shot himself dead.

This is the gloaming and fusion of

Dawn– at the last point of blooming

Into the lotus of night.

The lodestone is of Jade

And so sitting by the fire at night

All eyes must take the green fire,

The Jade fire, of the driftwood burning

Of the salt coating the driftwood

Coaxing green from the fire—

As a sign that even the driftwood is

Returning to its home–

The cinders of the wood fallen into

rThe earth 's resonant and ashy loam

The pathways of compacted night

A million converging lines of flight

The mystery of the constellations

Their Lunar Mansions- their

Secret alignments and pulling

All these are irrelevant– for

Tonight humanity walks-

Their own master, without

Any cosmic destiny.

Secret how these minutes twist;

Diminutive- into the forms of the hour

Their secret intercept-

The minutely cobbled empire of their variations

Politics of their powers and fixations.

The only syntax their sidereal forms would know-

Traveling cut off from one another-

Within the padded cells of it- each rebellious

Growth now ticks its secret - growing within itself

Growing within itself the sidereal gestures

Of a stunted pain or empty pleasure. Fulfillment

Of the forms untethered - each misfit growth betrays

Sliced yang- empty yin, which

With no other from its path of growth

Strayed. Where once was time-

Now only- are the empty museums

The forms of statues, which long

For separation and for space.

In dead empires of glossy jade.

Summer flow now to winter-

And with the change we enter

The cracked logic of December

Knowing that find the escalation

Of hope- in this closing, echoing

Sinuosity- of Snow-metered,

Silence. In this the space of

Fixation and echoing.

This lonely time.

I reach my mind back to

The rivers of the Summer

Echoing and Flowing.

Its waves lightly billowing.

The play of light upon it

Becoming the Palladian crystal

Of harmonies. They have secrets.

A single whorl of it.

Becomes a point of fascination

It draws in the sleek, sinuous, silver

World of the river. And now all day

Twists to this point. Let it be drawn

Let it yawn lazily.

Then find in it the

Focus- the Eschaton beyond time

On which it’s shallow light play

Can echo on- on which it does

Not need to become depth.

Yes I remember the secret.

Crystalline echo play of it.

Gleam upon gleam these

Torqued- to a single Quartz

Resonating still

In my soul.

Containing the many - -

Moments.

What wanders through

The crystal of the snow?

Is it the same?

And knowing this secret-

And living beneath the

Purple dawn- dawn of

Mausoleum, dawn of

New birth

I reached my arm deep within

The snow. And reached the

Spirit deep within the arm.

And unburied the embers of

Heat from within the cold-

Which now burned the arm

Setting into- a numb and

Tingling flow. This was the

Left arm, and the

right side of my

Brain. Winter and summer

Resonate.

And attempting to reconnect

Within arboreal tendrils of the dusk

Behind a mountain range

In it’s shadow world, a different

Figure repeats the same-

Motion this time the

Right arm feeling for

The left brain. Purple

Dawn- sinistral

Now peaks- tendrils

Of the fulcrum

Of the balancing-

Cold and heat. And

Estrangement

Of the distance is

Melts- Split mind,

No split self.

Structure, Semblance, Garnet

sonnet.  Idyllic

Gamete of form.

The Mediation of mind

Machination of time

Crystal as solid as anyone other.

In the turning  of these spheres

In the turning of Saturn

Music of your spheres

Chrysalis, crystallus

You are a pattern

Perfect since the

Dawn of time

Telescoping,

Never  before caught

In the mind of

Any distant astronomer.

What epicycle do you trace away from us

Quintessence, obstruction. Dark second

Moon of time. Beautiful and still sublime

What epicycle did you take, when

You hint your essence at me

In the echo of lakes. Galileo am I

What secret music are you tuning

In feathers of the Cosmic Swan?

In nebuli you hide. And the

The dawn-annihilated eyes

In which I sigh and watch.

There are feathers also

Your fire burns,

The hybrid of the Phoenix

And the Lyrebird.

You are

Forged in  distant

meridians of light

Cosmic fire, what distance do

You ford from us? What is

This loneliness upon all

The earth.

Stilted in drops of dew

I heard the cosmos's refrain

I felt your secret as a child

And would feel you

In the petrichor

Crescent birth-

The quiet chord of earth.

Even the earth's hardest

Core- must in some way,

Have been in tune with

You

You are the

Mystery  of the life-giving

Rain of earth, announcing

Itself in your resolute

Dawn-banners

You must have been grass,

You must have been all

Jupiter, you must have

Been voice that spoke

The first Vedas, quicksilver

Demeter,  how quick

You slip and fade.

My sedate wit, did

Not encompass the

Fall.

Reverberative.

And I am afraid

I have fallen apart;

Since this.

Why do you return?

To me you were

Pools of

Dying Ichor

I thought I watched you

Sprawled dying.  In the death

Of every minnow, in every minute.

Raving I thought I watched

Each minuet of your life

Pattern patent Finish.

Why you do you return again?

What heart could there be,

To dart in grace of, then to mend?

What gravity did you claim

That space you bend?

Your mystery

Existing in magnetic

Compasses.

Vernal, diurnal

Eternal

Yes- Liquid Autumn of my childhood

How quickly, I watched  it slip

Through the cracks.

Magellan could not

Circumference it: flowing Quicksilver -

How can I encompass it?

Secret finder of paths

In timeworn compasses.

Roar of your Auroras in icicles

These starborn boreal castle

Steppes, my soul races

Through with every circular

Step

And now you return,

Secret saccade of the

Flakes of your silent

Flame turn galaxies

To brilliant burning

Bushes

This is the hour

Of shadows pulling

Against their owners

As if resisting against the

Spectacle of an

Execution by

Drawing

This is the time of Lent

Of Lent starved from

Easter resolution

Becoming a time of

Arising,

Not remembrance

There is the secret hid

In the darkness of roses

Of the dying of all roses

As they cross their

Phases of wilting

Of drying and of falling

For there is the moment of

Transitioning- the moment in

Between- where the rose

Sacrifices its breath

The shadows fall- circles

Within circles, becoming

The Rainbow Body

As if awaiting the growth

Of Callicot's Antakarana

The taut moments are like

A man falling from the

Awning, cascading down

The balustrade

To meet the lover which

Awaits.

The spirit of the man

Of the man falling

Only;

As the body still

Remains.

And so for this series

Of breaths - at the limit

Of rising– we all are

In– the moment of

Indecision, of incision

Becoming as a statue

Of Kazuo Ohno frozen

At the last moment of

His dance, in his falling

Melting and sinking

The sublime interference

Of the clock's hands

Upon the hour.

Torus:

On which, distortions of

All these moments sour.

The electrical moment

Of a heart, the beat

Imparts a symphony

What is this mystery ?

The torsed feeling

And cognicentum

One and the same.

A Dali painting- the

Melting clock, slides

Out the frame-

Expectant wall, territy

Of earth-

Upon which

The sidereal rain of

Can only fall so slowly

Mysteries  and

Illusions in the

Process of unfolding

Sextant- lose direction

Your walls of

Brass are now molting

Earth and sky are one

And in this poem

They are now flowing ;

The austerity of birth

Veins dilate beneath

The mechanical momentum.

The evental and the eventum

Carved into the decade

Of the decayed cadence

And the disarrayed extrudance

Empty becoming the flowing

Of shapes to the influent

Trust in many shades the

Heart is melting in and

Out of; phase

Exuberant hell!

A thousand passions

In which the day

Met a million passages

Just to cleave the heart

In bent sedition -

Oh the misfit tug of time

The tumult, cascade, and

Pantomime;  in a moments

Time, gone from calmness

To a swarm of Lyrids.

The chanceless wind, dies on the sea-

So mellowly, it could not breathe-

Its absence - it was the "red green

Pastures" of Mallarme - the sea-green

Gold of distant greeneries, folding

So intricately beyond all abstraction

Leaving breath or soul no room for

Traction- the waves they breathed

The collective essence of foam and

Foment, folded in their intercollected

Action- the sea's connected passion

As each spire in its twirl - searching

Out the other, like fir trees slowly whirl

Merging their secret emerald worlds

In their mountain flights- synaptic - with

The azure of the heights, folding

Color unto color- as if no transition

Had transpired, for so intimately

Had tucked the fibers of the sea

The secrets of inner melding; the

Inner secret, of color into other

Color illusionarily bending knowing--

That all earth is rock, and that rock

To molten fire secretly is melting

That if an artist could harness the

Inner color nested in your hidden

Deep- free them from the haunted

Green, and the blue-gris endless sleep,

And paint them upon the mountain-

The skies it would confound them

And they would burst backwards

Back onto its rock, drip away,

Not able to handle the separation

From Gaia's clay for you have

Always held the secret of the

Matchless blue, all other paint

Becoming just the scansion

Of the residue

Strident--

Strife of earth and sea born in me, I Antiheracles

Antaeus- the firstborn spark of all striking.

A rage of ocean denuded- a vortex of man's drowning

Sea's granite-stark panoply, the coarse Cruelty of salt.

Antaeus! who is out of the wrack of Gaia- and her crags

Irassian tyrant, Caesura only in Msoura, of Berber's rags

They who shift the balances, who geared the fall of Troy- its

Blast and ruin, they planted me- as spider in the heart of man,

Knowing that though I was always death to him he

Who would call me - he who always needs an enemy

Out my death- monolithic sleep, pristine clarity in

Which I bided my time, I was called forth by the

Fool writer -as all myths are and I rose to see your City lit-

Dead monolith upon dead monolith, which you call a

Skyscraper: marked pure poetry of it- how they built

Their graves limitless- the missiles, the silos

They arrayed to spend themselves back into night,

And not foolish enough- as man's outmoded enemy--

Not Tantalus enough, to believe I could add one

Wit to the sum of it, I left untouched, the trap they

Had built, it's high summiting- pain cease without

Cease. Oh yes it was sweet to be outdone so. And

So I lay myself beneath my Kargan, the oppressive

Weight of it- where I can breathe tasting the

Bitter fruit of tragedy- the sweet inversions of it-

How even I- figure of a damned and scorched insolence

Could keep my feet to the ground, but man, stubbornly

Now rises- there a leaping, now a falling sound

Entering and courting with Death Profound.