in the darkest hour.
Meet me where the rivers converge,
where the elemental
of thought and reflection
begin to inspire
of territories newly populated
by the wisdom of
hands that prayed
themselves into warm bundles
of anxious grins that called upon the old
of lost serpents, mighty but humble
and for the most part without guile
but keenly aware of the changes in direction
and flow, and contemporary with outgrowths of
not yet reduced by the apparitions we have yet to fight.
of a lonely flower…
All that torment has loved has disappeared,
and we remain hopeful.
The significance of her efforts
have not gone unnoticed; indeed,
they have recapitulated old victories
and insights that had been hitherto obscured
by notions unseen and ideations to come.
We rally together for a promise of worlds to be
And fully satiate our desire for sanity
by committing to novel patterns of doing and breathing
deeper and more profound
as if the air we knew all along turned in on itself
and proclaimed that only the decadent shadow
could partake of her beauty.
We do not hope for redemption; it is irrelevant.
We do not participate in the vagaries of mindfulness
As we have already been thrice illumined by chariots
sallying forth in a devil’s mist.
After all, we have connected eons ago by the
hands of molecular consistencies and arrangements,
morphed into ornaments of a quiet and intricate despair,
became ripe for contemplation and eventual division,
and ennobled by a distinction not quite unlike
that we have seen in the old woman by the sea,
Who recalls those she instilled with benedictions and protections,
those who knew nothing of the imminent greying of the cloud,
or the sable rainfall in late winter,
or the cellular dance taking place in her furrowed hand.
We knew she didn’t exist as a fullness or even a drop of contingency,
but Fate would make it clear that this handmaiden of the gods
had no choice but to enjoin the waves to cease,
the moon to readjust and the whispers to become
Psalms of renewal and purpose.
Perhaps when I awaken from my slumber,
I shall call upon the disenchantment of the lost,
and be reunited with my passion for the nuance of colored thoughts
in a colorless world. I will know breath anew,
and each movement toward being will ripen
throughout successive periods of clarity and understanding.
It is then that I will become ingrained in myself, and project in infinite directions.
Art: “Phoenix (Peace Eagle)”
Matthew Day Jackson
captive in your arms
absorbing the sun’s
into our kingdom…
Suspended in space
Devoid of distance
Grazed against the skin
Silent and eager…
Blue elephants saunter in the moonlight, electricity keeps them
Focused, like pilots on descent.
There is no knowledge but bones.
In this bowl there are mice.
They squeal louder than the elephants.
Someone hears them, I’m sure.
The bowl is tossed out of the window
As the mice scatter excitedly.
Some of them are decapitated in the fall.
A bus driver dressed like a pilot (we barely knew him)
Took it upon himself to manually deflate each elephant with
A pocket knife.
A young boy implores him to stop, but he doesn’t listen.
He never listens.
His fibers of moral rectitude have been surgically replaced with worms.
He blinks like a mottled rat. Ugly bastard.
Galaxies arise after long, brutal nights of love-making.
Bloodied rabid dogs digest the remains of beloved heroes.
Her face is two-dimensional, like a crescent moon.
Anxiety is a dish best served by doctors in green robes with cardboard hats.
There is no room for bloated time,
For seedless apples with only two eyes.
Rest is the answer Ghandi crossed out multiple times with red marker
While tucking himself underneath formless elephant skin during the winter.
Art: “Villa II”
concomitant with swift movements
around, then through, then around again,
never to return to their places of emergence,
but to keep striving and transcending,
until they become as one,
and the ego is vanquished.
And a remnant graces her quivering visage,
wholly and concertedly renewed
by a tender lattice of divine thought,
in which the movements slow,
and the colors dissipate in the space of a blink,
and all that is left is a Barmecidal trance
of a thousand ages,
where the fruitful have come to keep vigil
and pray until the Sun turns gray.
Art: “Crozant Landscape (Grey Weather)”