After Insomnia


Insomnia is like, the last episode
The bouquet of roses in sunlight melting
In the mind of dreams that is free
From attachment or the relativity of experience
I’ve been there done those things
I just don’t remember, the sensations
Were like too actual and the feeling of being real
Was pretentious, like the self-importance of
Youthful moments that were as vivid
Made the seasons more bright
Maybe I choose to respond emotionally
Like April, a time of strength where
I could announce to myself my own passions
So sense could exceed all metaphor
And I could change myself once again
To awaken to the wakefulness that is not sleep
To the yearning that makes my soul on fire
To the fate that does not feel unlike destiny
The bouquet of roses then is held firmly
Like a breast, or a leaf or a life bled, breathed and loved.

The Last Wanderer


The Last Wanderer

Not far enough, my mystic soul has strained
Not real enough, my heart aflame
The trance of truth must be undone
All philosophy discarded again

For the lone beautiful Tao
That knows not a higher life
But only how to be
There is no sheer God

Outside of this enlightened brain
Only a cosmic energy
A veiled beauty everywhere
The music’s grip of gold

The muse’s shade of divinity
I know it well, I used to love it timelessly
O’ truth-soul, I’ve seen the wonder
Not of the world but of other worlds

And I long for them, as you long for memory
I have no memory but the spirit’s stuff
The dawn for me is the splendid cup
God is not asleep, he is dead

So let me learn the stars again
Upon new terms discover old truths
And be as a supramental thing
Prayer after pray, step after step
Breath to the light, of all body and mind.

A Pilot from Uncommon Language


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Freedom in Obscurity

I never imagined I’d experience
The repetition of experience
As pure freedom
The inner grammar

Is the failure to criticize
I am walking rapidly
In the slow-motion

From death to dream
To birth again, to be a poet
Is to obey letters of water
Powers of lucidity

Discovered in surrender
I never imagined I’d experience
Freedom in self-limitation

In the simple twilight of
The same landscape
I found the underbelly of genius

Where I reached the lines

I was supposed to (have)
The drowsy nerve of soul
Where all pleading stops.