Saturday, August 12, 2017


URIEL (Angel of Poetry)

The Light of God
angel of the South.
Write his name on
the south side
of your desk.

Now you’re
facing North.
The letters
will change.

The Face of God.

A presence,
mercifully behind
our irreverent eyes.
This is the back, then
the turning away
our faces wear
in a veil of light
like Moses wore
when he returned
from the mountain.
Somehow this was allowed,
to show the others
this turning away,
a mirror pointed
at Him unseen.

They say M’s veil 
“horned light.”

A call uncovering 
the naked air.

The pen is a type
of candle, like a stolen book
to copy quickly.

A pen is all copy.
Mirror. Twice.

They say Adam 
wrote a book
to help him forget,

a light that discovers the light.

Sunday, August 6, 2017

Trestle Board

Trestle Board

Blue car tapeworm. 

Bowelwork: stars in blue ink.

Now, state your intention. 

The haruspices show influences, affirm Saturn’s entanglement, with these certain veins and vessels here, affirm confusion.

Saturn blue. Law ink. Saturday Sabbath. I sacrifice, make sacred this day. This is the mystery of the creative word. The creative word– that the word is not creative, but revises: all poetry is revision– the words we speak enter the written law. The Sabbath is our listening…

Saturn trembles at our subversion: my body is the cradle for what comes to mind. A magnetic patience shortens my personal distance from the unending day of action.

The tyrannical planets tremble.

Each thing discovers the primacy of the word.

Grasp the star in your liver.


The image is passage.

Don’t explain too much.

The three sisters draw their swords, and the snake is cut into 
three pieces.

The snake howls beyond our body and whets the forest’s edge
that slices through.

Through two. Through three. 

Throbbing, follow.

The pen’s career through the forest of white wood
at the size and speed of mind tells my line, lives.
The forest’s inhabitants, follow.

The forest shuffles forward through the trees.

The sisters cut themselves from the serpent that surrounds the forest. 
The serpent’s cutting edge they consider their bodies, slicing forward:
snake trees in morning’s splendor.

Words on a white page. Us strangers in a play.

Lines, colors, to show the way. Dromenon. Mandala. Dissolve this image. 

These were the three named Hiram.

That will be our names.

The Master Builder of Solon’s orchard. 

Here our ritual returns to its Egyptian sources. The painting above my desk, done by a local, of  Imagination’s blue pond.

Take off your lid and dip in your pen.

Let’s find out who we’re talking to.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Lila’s Birthday Book

Sunset and shadow rays
as Hopkins saw, clothed
in clouds to the East.

Sun and leaf-light,
vegetable shadows
through which the nervous animals
cross between fields.

There is no Sabbath,
but a silence worshipped
by work; purple rays,
her earth she sings
none may enter Lala Land
but open to find your
flag already waving there.

(The Vegetable seeks
the Angel Animal.
The Animal seeks
the Angel Man.
Man the

Earth that rises as the 
sun sets. Vegetable,
Animal, Human. I put
my finger to the gears
and lick the soft greasy 
soul. Horse-lather,
sea-foam, milk-weed.

Birds calling from your shore.

Saturday, July 8, 2017

After an Image in the Voynich Manuscript

The women as if in a mikvah have come to cleanse themselves in the green pool
in the Voynich ms.

The women as if Danaids carry water from the pool in their sieves.

Through her destruction of the sons of Egypt, for which she was wisened
by this wasting away,

through the terrible count that has no point
she makes herself whole:

the numbers of the Tetractys come and cleanse themselves in the green water
in the images of women,
one and two and three.

They have to do with the nine Muses
some Greeks imagined are calmed Maenads:

allow numbers refreshment in the water
of memory from which I have fashioned my mind.

There is no biological analogy.
The patterns come to us. The flower arrives,

you can see it in the water, but it isn’t wet.

Friday, July 7, 2017



The face of the moon sleeps within the full of the moon,
which is a mask of the sun, you know.

Fifteen golden yods
hang from the unseen branches rhythmic winds
fill upwards and downwards. A golden stream comes from the faraway
mountains and The Lobster alone can receive it, by the shore where

to the right of the stream a golden coyote, and to the left a brown dog.

A dog gobbles up one’s monadic existence, Nerval said.

Unclean because renders the good of faith unclean. Yeah, 
me and my friends don’t like dogs.


We can see The Lobster in its proper place
uncolonized by men.

The Lobster behind the dog’s back
turns to the golden stream
the moon dreams.

The dog turns to the face
that hides the whole of the moon
that hides…

The golden coyote closes its eyes

and bares its teeth at the dog.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

Adam's Bath

winds are lit within the sun
and wind through the sheen of things
which sheen discloses light alone
and the winding salt of sight’s corridors
spiral deep to the still lake
That I may climb and find relief
      where sight lives, and speaks things
the raw trees of speech
articulate branches
of the Law,
    That I may climb and find relief
no more hand to get between 
Christ was compared and united with the stone
two naked suns
    two winds disappearing
  I want to hear my voice
the anthropos
    not reincarnated but whose measure is my own
to dissolve my body in its senses,
  two winds dissolve in resolution
αποκαταστασιν πολuκρονιον
Christ was compared and united with the stone
long lasting restitution of things
find the measure anew
where the body’s temple remembers
rotund Falconetti,
herds of antelope a friend’s hand
our true form
the line remembered
the speaks my own
vindictive Yahweh
into the God of Love of the New
The Christ-lapis projected into matter
matter with its magical fascination
threnody for the lost god
that is the god’s calling
from the disappearance of distinction.
Ishtar’s lament for Tammuz
      ‘for the far removed there is wailing’
she is dissolved with him in the bath
                    she is the bath itself
the fiery sea the king cannot endure,
            she is the fiery image
of myself dissolved in her
united with the stone
the lapis full of voices,
dust from the four corners of the earth
when the earth refused to provide for Adam
black white and red earth from the angel of death
Adam, because of his perfection
must have had a knowledge of all natural things
in Arabian tradition Shîth (Seth) learnt medicine from him
as he lay, still inanimate, in the ground
(as we watched, Adam, asleep in the miracle play)
Seth (Shining Star, Sirius) learnt medicine,
Seth, Ishtar, Isis, The Star, 
ex nocturno seminis fluxu
from the sleeping Star Adam
Seth learnt medicine, ate the lettuce covered in semen, 
ate Ishtar who killed Tammuz; 
Isis who gathered up Osiris:
The Star Seth and The Star Adam
the fiery image of myself dissolved in her
Sirius, The sun behind the sun
the sense of rhythm is the distribution of: recuperated in this
bath of alergens the wind tunnel
  leaves at my doorstep
ex nocturno seminis fluxu
dust of the earth wailing
          Adam taught me asthma
body’s wail for the far removed
Argentum Astrum, the far removed
disappearance of distinction. But, How far is far, if you can think it?

I think of her when I’m about to die.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

hieroglyphs continued

Patterns issue from the mirror I try to be
goat footed box I track through the letters
through the animal dimension it is a wheel
you can hear still pouring through this alter
I mean this string I hold, the wellspring
Pans cascade through my privatized topology
to rebuke me for making the world
when it’s self I should be listening for
not training vines to grow up the light’s legs
while a flowering sky offers itself as an axehandle
to the snake that ties handles in bundles
that leave me messages at my mother’s shores.

See what gathers and deduce the number
to find which two places I am at once
all my pans bow to Pan the random
their voices polish his resonant ewer
spindles turned true through abstract yarn
work awake whatever’s inside this bottle
fishy seeds to come imagine my soul
weight in the world calling my goose to bear
as if somebody were in search of a lamp
iron in your pocket to bring the children back
cast their broken hooks in the maternal oven
and untie your dolphin from the red ribbon at last.

The images are tethered by a silent observance
bones ring in resonant boxes
each of them facing what they call north
the roar of Typhonian waters
through the orb of a plucked string
their grammar binds in my little ears
the wide sounds in which the tall ghost walks
a goose pulling an anchor by a red ribbon
grabs my hand with his neck permissive light
green wood tied to corroded ore
above and below both dangerously entwined
a dead dolphin for my trusty weathervane. 

Consonants thresholds bones
keening towards their mysterious owner
chicory fleabane roadside asters
I open my small mouth onto all waters
learning their thread, fate, measures
that tie me to the ocean’s brother
fish bearing palm fronds peregrini
goose dredging your lost anchor up
by the light of the lord’s stolen lamp
things are tied to the will to find them
holy tools the snake brings to mind
in whose shadows reach blood’s tethers.

A skull whose hair can work the fields
into a seen fire
of petals that thrill my imagination
its reflection in this wise water
stored away within each wave
until at last the water is silent is you
no reflection but direct report
no distance between my anchor and the goose
whose soft thin neck strangles me
iron leaves bending my young green stem
my flowers tell you I’m not from here
how the light from your sea came to die in my hands.

The first is always the hardest
folk wisdom theology bird born from eye
multiplication will teach me everyone else
a pitcher with each time a different drink
that say truly I am not to be trusted
under the decorative twine of parochial grammar
suppressed formulations undermine our power
this logos I wave this fake anchor
only big enough to tell a bird’s lies
before the olive sprig handle crumbles
and lets the gates of the celestial palace down
to regain animal and thingly speech.

This tape is a recording of the sutures of a skull
mesh of wood and geometry we are
knowing too much in our curves
wounds healed with memories like water
never letting go this ball of thread
that ties me closed as it comes
we accrue a fate begin the bible again
while words tremble to begin in us, their fate
and for some reason still take us in
to work crappy ore from the flowering branch
Kircher knew still shows the organization of the plant
a holy Kabbalah in my evil stories.

From here deduce the rest
what language wants to say
the hour’s hexagram
archetypes rush in to be organized
their jumbled spears in the water
that dutifully files them away
I too am just a calcination of soul
this salt I call my own
anima mundi will one day reclaim
soluble like language on its way to begin
unconcerned with our complexity
but the consubstantiation of flesh and what it wants.

Order I conjure from the so called random
order, Thoth, my own disharmony procreates
to espouse my cause within the world
we create in this house eloquent fiefdom
of effect radiant seeming
seals refract through emptiness
white Manjusri pre-teen under white sheet
imagination releases through the seen
creator of seen and unseen I dare imagine
Nicean flowers eating their iron branch
eat of the secrets whispered by the road
where you meet your own body traveling home.

What happens when you walk up to a cup of water
rain collected in skull what did you see today
the water mistakes me for one of its hundred brothers
and I fill up my pitcher each weft
day is collected 
and I preserve the secret medicine
Galen knew context is the study of the soul
where to whisper in our home to change
the world we ail, unsay us against
the balance of forces that drive me to speech
unsay my seeing from the weft
year by year wearing out the shore of things.

Now that I'm done I think goal was to give each image a range of possible meanings across the 12 sonnets, and in the 12 lines of each sonnet propose a reading of the series, so various proposals for meanings would resonate all at once, not serially but with a sidewindering reach throughout the whole: that in the midst of meanings the image might hover, gesturing, iridescent.