Forest at night

Forests have weight
Said the long night in summer
It sinks in
Like thoughts on a lake
A humid air minding
Your consciousness
No other to break the ineffable
No slanting of light
To cut the calm and dark
The forest was deep
In your being
It grew in entanglement
Through dim moist shade of day
Quiet mostly to the conversation
Mindful of a clearing
And preferring of concealment
Then come black
Healing itself by silence
The spirit of your inevitable
At one
Yet expectant
To the next coming of light
The next encounter with other
Breaking the wholeness of forest
And tearing night's perfect canvas
With unbearable veins of color

Within and Without 2

Imagine yourself at the end

Past the cusp of the first death

When all that passed before

Turns to stone

In historicity

At last you can discover a thing’s meaning

The quiet

As seasons pass mostly in darkness

The great night of Logic

Descended upon humanity

In the embrace of technology

The afterlife a series

Of calculated guesses

With faith left meritless

In the awareness of near zero probability

Those who still believed

Ensnared in a circular argument

A peaceful place

In the nature of uncertainty

Underlying the codex of Reason

As it was written

Into the fabric of existence

That left even your soul mortal

And all things ephemeral

Asking how to find meaning

In a stone’s temporality

And the incapability

Of Logic to perceive

A time without space

Or a space without time

What lies within and without

A circular Reasoning?

Philosophie

Philosophie was a fire

Raging through your existence

That you could not put out on your own

But then came the salt

The white dust in the grass

Along the freeway

The bleak winter wash

A flutter of the heart

When the music asked to dance

But you sat and stared forward

A deer in the headlights

The windshield smothered you

In stillness

The silence of an ember gently dying

Deep in the back of your mind

That you could not spark on your own

And so you waited for the forest

To grow its branches like tentacles

In the recesses of your brain

Pining for the fire

Come alive again

A near death experience

Walk the Human Night

Walk the human night

With your paint spilling

The colors of your being

Giving shade to old gods

Finding respite in being reborn

Through scars of tradition

That you painted over

Though even in irony the ritual persists

And a full moon splits the air

Where you walk only half in body and spirit

Witches begging the moonlight

For resonance

It escapes in your steps

Like a stillness

A colorless painting

Step by step you show no change

No preference

Perfect in your image

While your memory it dances

Celebrating the other half of your existence

No old soul thinking bodily

And no body in spirit

No spiritual entanglement

No compressed sentiments of society

No connection to the earth

No energy to seek

No calming agents

No stillness

Only motion and nothing

And the night

Alabama Pines

Burning to move

Like body like soul

Flesh of the mind

Peeling in layers

You found what once was

Waves of resonance

With the spirit of the world

Now peelings of logic

Without a reason for their being

Merely filling the space

In their absence

They thought themselves gone

And after several revolutions of light

You found yourself

In the dry verse of the pines

Burning for song

Burning for dance

Burning for the freedom

That rang complacent

In southern forests

Lined with towering crosses

And beds of needles

Drawing blood from what once was

Divine

Now dark inlets appeared

Along the edges that thought

What beauty was burning

In the pockets of shadow

Shrouded in

The devil's night

The Gods of Sense

For years they’ve taken me

And I’ve shut my eyes

I wear a shell

It’s thin like a ghost’s

Impaled on the bare limb

Of an old oak of wisdom

Vibrant and full of health

With a sick vein

That let in

You ran through the archives

Of your free mind

A projection on the wall

You thought dearly

Surely you could hold the edge

Your animus knows no depth

Greater than the layers

Formed in your self deception

There was no dichotomy

Any more than before they took you

It was you who let them in

The gods of sense

It was you Reason that deceived you

Remember that existentially

Hypocrisy is freedom

Like it ever was

August, Vermont

August, Vermont

The lake held

What nostalgia you had

Below the surface

It was blue in the distance

Wherein the mountains you dreamed

Was a clear black at your feet

And you stood clothed

Wanting to dive in

Submerged in water

That would fill your silence

With a pressure

To speak

Of what once was

In the ripples

Now empty gestures

The rain of days before

Blue in the distance

Of a clear sky

On a perfect day

Gaps

Dark roads mend the night

The gaps in your mind

Gaping in wonder or shock

You yawned through their closure

An exhaustion that set you loose

To spin an untold tale

Dancing on the forbidden steps

With the eyes of cynical souls

Abating you

Now wait for the summer to burn in

An orange glow to your blue eyes

Saturated, humid, smelling of fresh rain

A mesh of reflections clouding

The unbearable light

Like laughter in the fading of day

Specks of night shining through

The gaps in your teeth

Dark holes pretending to be

Chameleon

Hidden, consumed

Your spirit, your song

Silent behind the hum of the machine

Sit, and wander

And change

With your hunger for beauty

Satiated

What was left

The colors were blending

Into a purity

An oblivion

You still the chameleon

Took on the properties of nothing

Clear, invisible

Camouflaged in many colors

None that stood out

The empty airs of casual conversation

Pervading the meaningless interactions

The night dull

In the throbbing pressure of exhaustion

A wakefulness that would not end

Save for the slow ache

Of a fundamental boredom

Even the sharp points

Of discussing subversive politics

Were polished and rounded out

In the steady flow of incorporation

Carving a canyon that hollowed out the deep

A maturity of landscape

Made it seem

The desert of language

Romanticized in naivety

An old soul young in spirit

Pressed on to the bottom

The midnight river run dry

The child who dreamed it

Glistening like a midnight star

In memoriam

The mirage revealed

In the blending of your dry, coarse skin

With the unforgiving rock

Of an ancient riverbed canyon

When the water was here

It was lush, and humid

The air was tangible

Imaginary Friends

Reciting each shrill of resonance

Day in and day out

The higher power of your self

Had entranced you

In a circular derivative

Of your imaginary arguments

Posing your Reason against the hyperbolic logic

Of some contrived essence

Of some other

And this was your form of relation

To ideate friendships

Seal them in cellars of your mind

And let them age

If after the elapse of time

The concept had spoiled, then set it to rot

If it became something like a wine

Then let it age some more

And find a moment

To indulge of the ontological intoxication

At the exact specification of your conceptualization

Save the drops for the cellar

To age something fine again

Real Numbers

You chose technology in the wake of humanity

Since Logic was the fabric of your mind

It was the construct of your deity

In the absence of a higher power

You worshipped numbers and their curves

The way they danced in the aspens

The way they hid themselves in the folds of cloth

The moments when the ticks of time stretch unfathomable

Unfolding as the measure runs indiscreet

Or the stretches when the moments of time converge imperceptible

Collapsing as the experience folds into itself

You documented the irrational numbers of your subjectivity

And truncated them into the rational

Objective under the guise of your Reason

Ephemeral in the counterweight of the physicist

The balance was a formula drafted in your motif

That which held meaning

In the darkest of your furthest reaches

Your transcendental numbers

That gave structure to the infinitesimally empty details of your existence

The scattered characters and sequences

That constituted the formula of your song

The midnight river that always carries on

Was crafted by your higher Logic

Into a Reason for your being

Deeper than any material necessity

The common thread

That pulled you through the contractions and expansions

Of the experience of space and time

In the wake of technology

Was your human season

Sentient Code

Find your way to your restless home

Absent of things that own your soul

Some place far back

Breathing deep in cold water swims

Holding your heartbeat

Filling your chest with salt air

A tumultuous mind

The winds and their howling

Clearing the closing arcs of the raging swells

What silence in the folds of space

Does keep your calm

Watch as night unfolds your Reason

Sheets of numbers

Covering bodies of logic

Deep in the ocean plain

Forming a sentient code

That became your soul

Reborn in the midnight air

And gazing from the porous sea

Eyes fixed on the constellations

And what lived in the sky

What caused your precipitation from the clouds

To feed a circular argument

It is Still Bright Night on a Flat Earth

Let late come rest

Close the synapses

As daylight fades

And the evening glow

Courses through the shadows

And flickering thoughts

On the edges of your consciousness

The memory of snow

Falling in spirals

Upon the flat earth

Making the night brighter

You walked a waking dream

And all was silent

As cold pockets of air

Gave you chill late in the house

The flickering warmth

A static electric down your spine

And your mind peaked on the midnight river

Still, with a heightened awareness

A crisp sense of the moment

Absent a purpose or conflict

Relieved

Yet watch the temporality

Level the curvature of space

When the Darkness had Gone into the Fire

When the darkness
Had gone into the fire
Consumed by the flickering
Facade of light
A divisive rhetoric of metaphysics
In eternal stillness
Light and dark
Balanced by figurative motion
What has unleashed
What power swells in ignorant truths
What freedom gives birth
To oppression
Where is the counterweight
In the digitalization of resistance
The lightness of offense
The effortless votes
Where is their weight
The machine has long ago
Been consumed in the flickering of life
The crests and troughs
That defy the analytic pattern
The unborn will of a people
Growing in the womb of a new order
Biding time in the yet comfortable
Silence of the one long night
Waiting for the fire
To consume the darkness
The flames lighting its fickle trespasses
As it lights those who trespass against us
Lead us not into oblivion
But deliver us from inertia
For flickering is humanity
Its power and its glory
Mayhem

Life Was a Gorgeous Deep Blue

Penstrokes
Usurping the nation
A lake in flames brought peace
In melancholy
A house took flight from its base
The forest was thick to walk
The songs of birds were profuse
With laughter
Cackling like a madness had overcome
The hunters eager
To rationalize taking
Life was a gorgeous deep blue
The twilight of freedom
In paradox posed by Reason
Are we free to take?
Or free to live?

Take the trash out
The river flowed with waste
In algal forms it barely broke the surface
Concealed beneath
A home that was always moving forward
Watching for the sea to devour it
The discarded vessels of homes
Life was a chemical blue hue
And the living toll

Let live the resilient
They are free to grow
Along the banks
The soil their roots drink
Soaked in leaking oil
Blackening
Life was a dream of blue water
Distant from the dark minds
The night cometh for you
It envelops your uncertainty
The midnight river is black
And the white of the moon
Reflects and it knows
Take your life and live free
Or be discarded

A Renewed Admiration

The valley is the home of mist
That yawns beneath eyes in mourning
Always wanting late come rest extend
Into gaping day that light may be more clear
That moisture may be lit with clarity
Reflected in droplets formed on skin
And chilled the long stemmed glass of night
Dreaming of adventures beneath stars
Waking a profound homelessness
A feeling that enigma evades
That old meanings climb mountains
To inspire renewed admiration
Of things hidden in clouds

The peak is the mist of a home
Hanging in high consciousness
Severed from the river whence it came
Carrying sleep past trees that knew only wind
Along contours mapping the ascending ridge
Through deep set transcendent memories
A proximity like homecoming
Save for beads of indifference scattering
At the falling of old trees in the forest
And the discovery and carving of new meaning
A new day free of clouds to hide in
Walking along to gather meaningless things
From the people of the valley
Homeless and selling symbols of the peace
Which lived in the mountains around them
Which clung in mind as the charm fell
Striking the valley floor
Again scattering the meaning

Angularity

Late August advances to a close

The heat-warped avenues of the summer mind

Find their way to calm

After working, racing, chasing

So hard, so fast, so focused

That your soul is burnt, and dirty

And what was the hot, humid air of August

What was pure in the deep blue twilight

What felt like the saturation of your existence

With a weight like a meaning

Drove you mad to exhaustion

Dancing on the new city rooftops

Like a lost angel

And collapsing in a heap

When the spirit left you

Sensing the walls at your rim

Let some other angel take a sip

Forcing your eyes to close

There is no skyhook in the deepest of your listless reaches

Calcified

Your tangy thoughts, your sharp nerves

They turn to stone now rest

In your farthest of places from an angular world

Spanish Fine

It was like a distant memory
Of a nondescript but familiar moment
A routine that played out day in and day out
Now, but not so many years ago
Where the uncanny familiarity resided
A feeling that...
Not only this moment has occurred before
But that it is the only true moment
All else a fantasy while you rest perpetual
In a meaningless draft of your existence
This sheet the limit of your horizon
Like gazing up through trees
In the darkest reaches of the black forest
The dim light of the starlit sky
A shining beacon of hope
In the one long night of life
Your deepest joy the music in your soul
Triggered by a Spanish fine
Tears held behind the pace of your step
Spinning through the pure weight
Resting on your heart
Shivers through your arrested life
In transit
Your silence that was your freedom
Now a foreign entity
That watched you dance
The longing of your daily step
To be free
From the quieting pulse of the mundane
Now scream color into the white noise
That was the music playing through your head
While you sat in silence
While you dreamt up something insane
That became a fire in your step
To keep the embers ablaze
Until the rain or time moving on snuffs you out
Tango de la materia
Déjà vu au courrant

Midnight, Drau

The midnight river was the pulse

Deep behind the veil of days

That produced a sequence of coded expressions

Known only to the farthest reaches of your mind

And in a wash of moonlight

The crests lit briefly

As they rolled into the troughs

And patterned in the constant flow

Was a sequence:

 

In the relationship of positive statements

That are relatively prime

To the sum of power

We define the nested radical expression

Of seven negative points of Reason

As threads of the structure

Of the all-seeing eye

The clustered roots of the same pieces

In the same logistical positions

Raised to different levels of power

Replaced with a recurring movement

Involving the second and no higher power

Of an unknown hierarchy

Defining their biotic potential

In their method of resistance

That is, the opposite of the electric potential

Of all parts of the lattice

Felt by a single part

Or the power of all charged

Divided by the charge

Into echo chambers

The sum of power felt by all

Exercised by none

Divided by a circular argument

Expanding the sum of power infinitely

To result in a closed form

A constant circular movement

Arising in an attempt to find

The finite meaning of the infinite

The reciprocal of the convergence of unity

And the root of its digression

A linear measurement repeated

To result in a finite value

The limiting ratio of the infinite

Resounding as you approach

In linear recurrence

Raising the power of the circular movement

Within the limiting ratio

Of a spiraling thread

Hanging the structures of the all-seeing eye

Cut by the power of Reason

Into seven linear pieces

Nested into a recurring radical expression

With imaginary roots

That only become approximately real

When cut by logic

And counted in sequence

Each recurrence spiraling deeper

Changing the sequence

 

What is the finite meaning of an infinitely changing meaning?

What is the constant?

 

The midnight river runs on

As you stare into the distance