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

Blue Elephants

I Require Art

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”
Keegan McHargue

Lavender Reveries…


Lavender reveries
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)”
Armand Guillaumin

Enter the mist…


Enter the mist,
Absorb your portion
and extract your errant freedom from it.

Soon there will be deities encircled about you
starved for awareness,
and moved to recognizance.

Approach them where the light vanishes between their wistful eyes
and render them the remnants of sated wilder beasts
that only pray to deciduous reflections.

The clusters will gather and coalesce,
and perhaps sing for a moment.
Deny them not their due space to bloom,

to sway to and fro to the rhythms buried neath the
fathomages of ceaseless change.
Delighted by the gleeful murmurs of lost cherubs.

Art: “Tranquil Pond”
Gustav Klimt

A Spindle Emerges…


A spindle emerges
And worlds retreat into unknowing
On all sides.
The vortex has been reborn
And it figures into the life of spaces
Turgid with the fallen heroes of reminiscence
And motion inflamed.

And around it goes,
Taking time with it and dissolving it
Into hollow particles that move along
Slightly curved corridors
One by one, after a fashion.
And blackened thoughts
Begin to coalesce.

The corridors straighten out
And empty into vacuums of potential being
Sealed by a single, winding thread of excess darkness
Occasionally punctuated by iridescent
Moments of awareness.
Clarity happens best when edges are
Seared and smoothed out,

Connected by the wings of galactic angels
And cosmic vagabonds that sprint in every direction.
Tonight they will all break free
And be seen no more.
The vortex will be shattered and consumed,
Spaces will bend until collapse,
But memories will resume, fully-realized, on all sides.

Art: “Constellation: The Migratory Bird”
Joan Miró

In Time (2010)


We shall reflect upon the meaning of our disgrace,
Grasping truth unencumbered by blinded eyes.
Fugitive moments eagerly await the call of memory’s trace,
To stand before the day duly countenanced by obscurity’s demise.
We’ll hasten to discard every cloak and vain disguise,
And submit to all that the interest of honesty requires.
We’ll journey through forbidden caves of deceit and compromise,
Abducting strange thoughts, denuding secluded desires.
Fate guards the door of timeless secrecy to which our crime aspires,
Every path to resistance impeded by overgrown weeds of shame,
Ravished by the guilt that remains long after the fact expires,
We kneel wearily at the feet of judgment, ignominious passions with no name.
We are what virtue has disavowed.
We are what freedom has disallowed.

Art: “Les amoureux aux clair de lune”
Marc Chagall

From this vantage…


From this vantage
We have quelled our devils,
Torn our veils,
And dozed off in the effulgence of Being.

For a time our hopes were recycled,
Our superstitions dashed,
Our reach for life extended into
Flashes of distilled desperation

For a gentle upsurge that drifts and transforms,
That subsides and appears again
Ever-more slight, ever-more humble,
Dallying effortlessly with rambling thoughts along the embankment.

Art: “Argenteuil Seen from the Small Arm of the Seine”
Claude Monet