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