the rest is silence

in good faith is celebrating gravity
and depends on the thief;
which is not really a valid point of reference
for a disembodied voice: the answer,
i feel, is taken away

the thief is in the fields to the right;
the fast car, the suicide thing,
the ferryman and the coins,
the woman at the station, waiting

since I'm not having anything to do with it,
I just hope you're sorry now

merCurious illuMentations

the rest is silence ... such is the conceit of 'knowing' which is inclined to 'want to know more'; bent toward the gravity of 'I think therefore I am' which is the raison d'etre behind all pseudonyms ... wisdom based on 'knowing' has a fatal flaw, reason, which is wounded by the point of view you're in, the 'I,' where the fatal-skin begins -- however, the heart does not differentiate between man-woeman or race or any of our sense-based tools of distinction -- rather it's that 'glow of awareness' which is the key to the realEYEsed seeing of this blissful reality changing, ever rearranging -- a heart jammed into the vibration can see on the sharp-edge of a glance and into the hearts of man-woeman-beast without judgment or opinion while discriminating-wisdom is following the heart but using the head known as licking-honey from the razors edge -- the 'I know' mantrum is another form of temper-tantrum and a ritual of Western Hubris, the kiss of the Narcissist that looks at each other with darWINian percepts, that lasso of who's who on the hierarchical tree of 'I me mine' memory -- mmm, nonetheless, the fractal-flaw in us all is the revolutionary-mutation, the viva la difference dance where we all look into the mirror of each other and see sister and brother and if by chance the mirror reflects in a myriad of ways, the beloved one, then you've begun to see that the rest is silence and shall want no more, as such, said in another way, freedom from freedom is truly free, that is, the weight of the world is really its only door ...

Atlas mused - the yoke we bear in time is space, the domain in which we view, all that's done comes back again, because we chose it to -- when we look even deeper then, again we look some more, what we thought the weight of the world, is really its only door ...

saturn unfettered

the hoofly God with long tales,
removed his horns
in the deep of night
where darkness moaned
a crack in despair,
there, where the light can now appear

he comes off
as chaotic, familiar
which is the way of
casting out a neural-net
of gleaning.meaning with
vortex prayers 'n fractal wishes
on the edge of an ancient-ache
in time 'n space matters

his path-depends
on that old Promethean fire;
coals of embers glow,
they gleam again inside the eye,
then sparks do fly, away, away, they go ...

the music of ice-bergs

ellipses tremble
trace in waters
a deeper kiss than this
though deeper still
revelling in waves
sunken, slips
heavy under
starry-starry lights

i feel tall
those empty hollow places
that leave me under your skin
all deeper to the sound of standing-still
deep ocher core

mostly take the terror out of your eyes

it's in-between the breath,
that silent-turn,
from deep inside,
rolling a-round
with the sound,
until it forms an awe

or wonder, too
that your tongue
inflects a tipping-out,
passing by lips still wet with kiss,
where trembling-air begins
to vortex 'n curl like waves upon a beach,
push'd in inner-ear as ocean sound,
re-sound again as bliss -

and further into this, your whirl'd
of curl'd synaptic-brain,
where lightning sings,
into a flashing of your eyes,
as if an eye could gleam,
between you and your simple dream,
of crystal clear blue-skies...

indivi:Duality

American Express: the baby-boomers at the height of their artifice-driven narcissistic wet-dreams Newg'd out the "I am I cried" package in petty bo's 'n ribbons -- when you opened the package meant for one and all it was meaningless 'n droll -- we're all in it together they said, individually unique in bed, and while they sang, come all ye' faithful to the average man, they wanted you to have a credit-card in hand -- Express your individual right to buy anything in sight, you know it's true, you're the light you bring to the eye with the gift that keeps on taking, promulgating the lie ...

Atlas pondered

- the yoke we bear in time is space, the domain in which we view, all that's done comes back again, because we chose it to -- when we look even deeper then, again we look some more, what we thought the weight of the world is really its only door ...

sometimes the boiler aches

in the language of a cumulative push -
steam-roars, boom, boom, boom
in the belly of the beast, crimson-teeth
rip-fire into-iron-flesh

b u b b l e s roll,
under-understood,
thunder-in down the pipe,
bellowing with hiss ...

stok'd into a viscous-rumble
s:trains-a-move-down-the-line
engine-urges-whine
up-the-track, clakity-clak
clakity-clak
in feet-of-head a head
of steam m o a n s,
presses tempest into iron-plated
bolts the size of your fist,
squeals out rigid seams as fiery mist:

truth escapes, trailing white plumes,
stack to sky, stack-to-sky,
to fall as condensate rain;
hard going tears, way down in the hole,
groaning-oh
'til the fire comes again

I used to be a Boiler Man

super heated steam re-boilered in the extreme shooting plasmic condensates at extremely high rates - the roiling fires flame impinges on the steel belly of the beast, migrating as radiant heat, slides into water as bubbles rising in a crescendo, accumulating in a rumble, thundering down the pipe, bellowing with hiss

I'm a Fourth Class Steam Engineer also known as a Stationary engineer here-abouts and this is how I got my start in 'Puters as they became our monitoring equipment in the early eighties although the gauges measuring pressure and temperature were and still are relied upon -- I once had a fire-box explosion which blew out the stack access and rumbled the building to the top 12th floor - a leaky seal and oil accumulated in the fire-box -- I saw everything in slow motion - the brik-a-brak blowing from the stack, the boiler jumping on the spot, my life I had forgot...

in the language of steam condensates - head of steam indicated how much pressure you could raise and feet of head meant you could raise more BTU's like a tempest in a boiler plated with bolts the size of your fist, squealed out the seams as a fiery mist: the works were many from mines to sub-basements in commercial buildings - I once managed Government Buildings in Winnipeg with centralized steam boilers spewing white condensate into the frigid clear skies

I'd say my worst nightmare job as a boiler man was in an abattoir where dead farm animals, some alive, would be screwed up to a thrasher and steam pummeled for a long time -- the oils called tallow were sent out east to become the base of perfumes in a storage car -- while the 'meal' left over was made into dog and cat foods -- I smelled of death in those days

on journaling:

next time you look at those twinkles in the night sky and sigh there'll be a glimmer in your eye ...

if you don't know where you've been, you'll not see where you are and can't get to where you ought to be - the transmigration of writers is with ink - then there are curious circles that fill our days and when we write them out and really look and see, a turn of phrase that changes us conceptually, as the circle becomes spiral, a vortex to the sky, where the Stars of hope wink 'n blink, and beckon us to fly

star talk shadow walk

what if light is the language of Star and Star is the language of night and night is the feeling of ineffable space where the infinite writes insight, with plasma roiling from its transmuting pen into particles 'n photons that zeal; that seems to me to be so very real ... then our shadow we see, slow diving on the ground, is a reminder of the night we carry, everyday around

timeless

in our measure of time there are curious circles filling our days,
numbered moments marked by the scars of transiting lights,
heavens moguls of tribulation 'n plight, that give or take away –

though I spend my time, circling the horizon of my mind,
seeing her in time 'n space as a congruence of my need,
the sifting of my sieve, she is on the face of it, a timeless piece,
a swinging pendulum of rhythms sway,
a clock that circumscribes my day,
and in every night as I watch her lay,
time stops and takes my breath away

days of shadow and sea

it's easy to remember
you in these pictures;
light's language of shadow
sculpting time
and
you are there
like a shell pounding out the sea,
laying back on the beach,
head sideways, your eyes closed,
knees buckled in the air
open to the Sun's
fingers of light reaching,
glistening there

I've not been the Sun
in your darkened places
since
the day you offered yourself
to the sky,
 the day
I succumbed to the seas
endless waves
          washing over me

everything is gradual

everything is eventual then it's happening --
we're moving in circles at a steady pace

the city got new search-lights pointing at the sky
looking for a miracle in the clouds hanging there
worried about the things they've got to do,
like the war on terror, H1N1, your money and it's true
everyone wishes the rain would break
the high tide, the flooding for god's sake

what are we going to do?

with a predilection for an immediate look
from any third eye cave -
i am in that tunnel
i am the rave...
rolling down the main streets
rolling down past the ignored miracle you are
rolling down where you can buy everything
from a gun to a slave
what are you supposed to do at the dead-end
of our collective mind

round and round
neutral flowing and changing every lil' bit
suspended precariously like a platter on a hardrive
a hard hard drive

aspiring

I hide my flame amongst the embers, slowly burning there
a little light remains as assssh, fuming gasssseoussss screams
a waft of smoke ascends from where, my little light does flare
to lurch in shadows on the wall and burst to sparks that sigh;

my lowly ember flickering flame may be all my fire seems
to dance with stars in the night, is what my fire dreams ...

happiness is highly over-rated

happiness is highly over-rated; however, laughter is the best of all medicines when one has come to the 'dust 'n ashes' stage of growth in consciousness -- nevertheless, the dog chases his tail and we all laugh at such foolishness, yet the dog is happy by his reckoning -- so, I say what is this 'happiness tale' you've been running in circles about? -- the muse of glee is fickle -- yet, watch an 11 year old engage in the minutiae of life's wonders, learning is a passion ... learn something new, turn off the tube, watch Autumn leaves fall ... and laugh every morning at the visage in the mirror, Dear -- you're all you've got but don't take anything seriously, especially your-self ...

Autumn sunlight

cool crystallized
fractal hoar frost
clinging to leaves 'n grass --
askew autumn sunlight
reflects 'n refracts,
evaporates to mist,
like a lovers goodbye kiss

the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations or a further farther found near-bye

grateful for the verities of Poetic experience
and Poetry often shows this lyrically without
the lucubration of pedantry or
the fundamentalism of bigotry.

sHe sings in the ecstasy of realization
so lightly in these darkened days,
lifting our eyes to the nobler quest in feeling waves ...
or better yet, sHe plays with language and creates anew,
mangling with absurdity, the light, from the words
as a Poet ought to do?

-- words imbued with silence only the heart can hear,
the potential of the pause, the swelling of empty space,
in that stillness her longing heart whispers with verity,
the Logos is thus Theos, and so my dear,
you meet-her in words far 'n near--

Yet if the telling is the lure and words are as powers
to sway and preach, then they neither fly nor teach!

sHe lures us to look and look and dare see
with eyes open to an inner reality --

sHe dives deep into the infinite-in
                       where a visceral piety is the pearl
made in the murmuring mud, rolling around in the sound,
a whirl'd of delight,
showing again as a gleam in her eye to be
reflected in the thousand mirrors of your mind --
where there are many more glimmering pearls
for you to find

.

.

.

 

... a definition of pious is dutifully -- however that is too rigorous as this quality arises from equanimity as being plain and simple to be in tune with nature; which follows as the equipoise in the eternal-now where one is neither attracted nor repelled by any such thing or is neither compelled by the past nor future beckoned, but simply elegantly without remonstration, sings from the heart as sweet as sHe is want to do

sighNs

stars that once lit up the darkness of space
fell as burnt cinders to a sleepless city;
your eyes glitter'd with their lost reflections,
forever Moonless, thoughtful, manic.

I wander into
a well lit cafe
to drink thick blackness in a cup
brooding over your absence this night...

dead-girl

she shines in the melancholia of living like the dead in the warm glow of television, so I caress her in a non-judgmental embrace, bending rigid fear into heart hugging arms