There’s an octagon on the ceiling.
Stronger than Neptune.
The four quadrants are pyramids
encircling the sun.
Mantra. Mind’s mind-making tools.
Guards at the Tree of Life.
I mean sun.
Slip of the pun back into itself.
At the corners of the earth four
identically tanned angels focus
at the center of the ground.
Slip of the ground
disrupt sight’s rays across empty mind.
Cosmic sin quotient my sin compassions
back through time we call doing good.
The tools pack themselves up
or break into smaller tools.
Smaller is eviler.
Encoded in hierarchy is ratio.
In ratio, recurrence.
In recurrence, interval.
Whose turn it is to speak.
We are legion.
That was Isaac Luria speaking.
Everyone gets their cameo.
The seeds of the stars practice their rituals–
intervals on the field.
Citadel of form, through which ghosts pass
Immemorial real empty page.
Index to false body’s real.
White motor of the visible rose. Golob Jaman
warm under the hill. Synesthetic gterma.
The builders’ smell-stone.
Revelers in the Time-stream
of the Tower, the life of the tower.
How to be table. How to be wood.
Voices that know the fate of the soul in the
octagon of the head.
Your mother’s secret family.
Konx om pax.
See how you’ve become me.
Applesauce on the bougainvillea.
As seen from the True Cross.
The denomination of each.
Free god’s image in the funhouse.
Interminablemente me miro.
Say mu mu to start juicing your reflection.
If it keeps distracting anyway.
Another me come to live inside you
or is it you who said that to me.
Which direction are the nibbles facing
on Pilgrim’s Progress. I do well on quizzes,
rain-drenched through my Sarah.
Trouble is there’s no trouble–
unless you’re a dualist about the sniffles–
better to let emptiness valorize memory
even if the lake is guarded by a wash of flying bugs
in order to disrobe the self. Disresemble x.
In the Yak’s dream the zoo is something else.