Thursday, October 12, 2017



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
seeking masks.

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.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017


Hear her drilling down there
rare mineral vein in the rock
that swells out the sail

rugs on bannister bird in the street
be suspicious of the wind;

trust Vāc. Wet leaves
shiny in the dark of mind.

All the way in and all the way out.

Go whole or go home.

Symmetry is suspect
(a definition of the wind).

You’re in danger of how normal I am.
like animals that live between extremes,
Petrarch, says Pindar.
An air that comes between
the empty aether and the sun.

A salmoning fall.

Sunday, October 8, 2017


Juniper cure.
White powder
on hard berries.

crescent cut
into tree.

Cave of the moon
carving actively
as it nears
the sun. Cave
where Osiris is hidden.

Powder. Living
interior of the crescent.
Anterior. Within
the edge. Death is
all edge, corner, parry.
Within a rain of antiparticles
waiting to be born again.

These too are fruits.
Pluck one. Anti-tree.
Close your eyes
and step aside.
Feel them fall

ripe from your fingertips.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Listening to Beethoven

Listening to Beethoven

Some elbow grease
to wake, fight the way
back downstairs,
the way water does.

Stop this thinking
and let the thing go;
Luminous waves
the little ship

Parts of the sentence somewhere
perk up in answer.

The slow book
that almost sleeps
I call sleep

music book
the circulation of the blood
Beethoven I think knew

a field of rabbits
behind the nannie’s hair.
The book is closed
so the book can hear.

Footsteps back.
Water retraces its steps
and the ruler dreams.
There is no distance left

to keep its galloping away. 

Saturday, September 9, 2017


A red. Through cramped passages, through the old town and the new town, through brick and cement and interjections, city speak: there is a labyrinth, a music, the red follows. Though at times seemingly crushed, beheaded, disembodied, entombed, the glowing ember unfolds from the blade of the city’s slippery breathless compression. 

For a while respectful of lineaments of concrete and glass and new structures, now the ruins none see deep beneath, or down to vague potencies in the arrangement of stones we’re kicking even now: the red alternates through this and then that in a passage true to another city. Two cities that meet in passages from one to another, red itself records. 

Dear Atlanteans. The red is a red wispy beard set off on a smooth white face, or at times a red bird, or a beach towel, or worse. The red is met in passages around which crowds of consonants are crushed, pressurized in great masses, they grow hot and into mineral walls; cool and airy passages implicate in the scheme of things. The tendency of artifice melted down and recast in the lightning flash of the diamond intention

In the cramped city something edges forward, a glimpse, ye spectador, of red from the back of a taxi. It lifts a spoon of soup to the personal chin and blows whistling lightly over. Soup and thick white bread. 

A sense around the corner, where it’s been, or will be. How could I know that? My own sense of person, my metaphysics is the distance between myself and this many-faceted conspirator. Red plot of uncanny presences, filial or foundational, or any flimsy plastic conch in which to hear the absence of myself and the purity in which it waits, and sows the seeds of that plant that is Waiting.


He was gone by the time I paid the cabby and walked back. He glided through the leaves. Leaves and concrete, stone, sand, water, aggregate, cement. Abstract forms that dream in their old patterns still, and pretend to be our own. He glided through the leaves of one forest into another. In that forest there is a clear track, and in its weathers and stochastic growths the red birds pleasure their individual need.

“The words strike us in the cities of the mind’s doing.”

Say something red. 


A red comes to suggest a cyclicity. A forever busy watching us return. Evidence this painting. The evident knowledge of copy artists, trained to paint clothes, or hands, or heads; but not the hand or head, only a look alike, in which false head is a foreign forest, ourselves put there. Evidence. A red glow strikes out across the face’s portentous features, that strike a reverberant tone, sometimes fatal, in the spectador’s avid bell. 


The man with red hair, like in Arthur Machen’s story, is a charlatan and a murderer. I’ve tracked him through a string of murders in this beautiful ancient town upon town in order to guess his master. Homoousion.

Contorted hedgerows. Crowds of citizens brush along a narrow thoroughfare, with the cantus whose individual wave lengths harmonize in a forgiveness, working at the steely brittle sun, that in synchronicity gives way, differences give way into the true harmonic of the architecture. This is a great detective story. The city sings its own destruction. The insanity of crime discovers the founder’s vibratory field; as if it were a mouth within this mouth. In a flash of coincidence, something red is glimpsed, and a shout is heard. Who is talking? 

We return to the scene. There is a necessity that calculates all coincidence of angles, of perspective from the center and the circumference, to open up commas within the twist and turn of streets and corners and abutments. 

After his lunch in the café he walked across town, through the park, with a rest on the fountain, slowing and speeding as suggested by the moment’s charge, to the measure of a music. He was as calculating as the sea.

Measure, that is, to mete-out, a treatment, the music’s rhythmic pattern. The red tide angel moon pulls away to mete out to the music a red treatment from my eclipse. Rubedo. Red Mercury. On my desk a red squirt gun. We return to a scene.


She reads some sense into me. An opening, to her credit, her glory, my absence be a memorial to her, where she cleaned me up, and to either side is a rubble, and yet apposite is an integration. Love is to live in two worlds (at least) at once. (The first number.) A passage. Red bridge. Durations. Another sentence enters the mind. Now say this. Words are dying to say, slip from the mind into the lies of this discourse. Another bird comes with new instructions, a vocabulary the durations endure.

A red glow comes and goes as I read. I follow these dubious assertions and cramped abutments, apartment buildings, angles angels into sudden fullness of a place remembered. The red car that slept outside my window one year, wrapped in black tarpaulin. The kind you see when you lie down on the warm asphalt at night, listening silently to its radio.

The detective is a ruse for such reflections as hunger towards the mirror, to induce the presence of the music by empathy, or contagion. Cantus. To sing awake the spheres.

Reductions, self-references, illuminate the bridge to forgiveness. A light to show the night. You are late, but they’ll forgive you. 

Your red bead opens the circle in which it appears as both center and circumference, and the snags of the city are lost as a thousand little faces rush toward the light.


The real is not reasonable, and permeates this mushy citadel of light, building manqué that invites a perfection. Transmitters crumble at an imparting touch, dying like bees, or close themselves off in a rush of cold air. Martians can be seen through walls, or in openings of sudden sight, where they vie for control of the sun’s setting.

The durations endure.

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.