In Longing Leaps This Language

how long a
multiplicitous metamorphosis,
this liquid chrysalis.
not to dismiss death but to find it
in the breath becoming
each new stillness or step.
all desire drifts you,
this shifting trail of tales.
all story makes glory possible
even in peril
often only dance allows the chance
for pure state whether
dance of the soul's weather
or how the body relates without hesitation
or needing to understand it,
seems simultaneously open to everything,
one true song singing through you in
each moment plucked from infinity
by this mutable reflection,
anima and animus in each direction.
my dreaming daimon,
eschatological staccato,
beings with bravado
on the ceilings of tomorrow.
does memory borrow self
or self borrow memory?
these evolving maps of history,
your body being such a map
snapped to animal attention-
which animal?
animal witch,
unstitched time space fabric
elastic force without futility,
a harmony in humility.
all this, your own
inner investigation to
get to everyone
if i am you and you are me
and such all some light of sun.
music is your medicine,
laughter is your rhythm,
a currency relieving the captivity
of your own heart held in dark hostage
for daily random ransoms.
i know one one thing,
i am no thing.

surge reverie

this soft sketch of skeleton,
then placed along the tendon
in drift and full abandon.
something to be said
for how you reattach the head,
held along the perfect tension
in constant calling to attention.
such surfaces your mirrors,
each movement brings reflection.

April 2, 2004 In Response...

In Response To His Eternal Sunshine Of The Active Mind

activated eternal sunshine
illuminates interior design.
gear shift and lever,
clever as this year's monkey.
we hold the secret turn-key,
released from traps to discover
the definition of free:

the ability to wander in the wonder
to make the fear a thunder fuel,
to know that to become wise,
one must also embrace the fool.

in this school, the scholar and the skeptic
meet in a hectic bar for a beer or two,
loosening up their language, hoping for a clue.
amidst this great to-do, a translator enters,
orders a tall glass of water, room temperature,
makes the conversation new with the knowledge
of ghost scribbles and ancient song-
there's still debate over write and wrong
but suddenly the soundtrack soothes the late night long,
words giving way to movement
(dance can be an improvement on dead language).
limbs manage to loosen by the light of eternal sunshine,
over time the damage dusts to death and
the whole room inhales the blooming breath.

the conversation now a conversion,
not one of coercion, but rather immersion
in the holy hopes of hallelujah,
a gutteral roar of praise for the personification of peace,
a deep release of rhythm facilitating the sacred prism.

The world now speaks with intuition,
we peruse its paragraphs and find
that soft inside the eternal sunshine of the active mind
its much easier to listen.

Who Made Up This Game?

It's sobering how oh so brave you are,
How you came out with a beautiful scar.

That heavy load that made you go,
Go show the shadows all your might.

White feathers felt your spine,
Opened up your body like a book,

Your heart so strong divine
Aligned to look through time

New with clues to shine its opening,
It's sobering how oh so brave you are

Having born from seed of star,
Maddened from such travels far.

This delicate situation sparked,
Having come from sun to make your mark,

It's sobering how oh so brave you are.