Open my hardened heart
and if I resist, place a merciful kiss
on my lips before banishing me
to the rebel compound, where I
crouch, smoking kif, staring
unflinchingly into my fate,
with a heart both fiery and fair.
nothing to determine,
nothing to name.)
The countenance of kindhearted
angels follow you from behind
every face you ever haunted;
bringing skin to spirit and blood
You never know
After Henry Miller
Oblivion is by far the easier,
lazier way of life, moving through
genetically predetermined activity,
automatically returning the carriage
of the typewriter.
Blame not the repetitious routine
of your circulatory system for
your failure to engage in leaps of faith.
Pretend, if you must, until the vision
comes clearer or your decide to quit
and vegetate, vaguely ruminating
on Earth’s unpredictable mind-fog terrain.
The Alabaster lamplight crashes to the floor
Amidst the terrifying dream sequence.
Walking up is always the better idea.
After Brice Marden
Brice Marden’s lines,
like the uncomplicated flow
of the invisible Tao,
moves in and out of space,
with paint and a steady hand.
He found release from the relentless
drive to force form and now
he simply paints distilled quietude,
fluid lines, graceful composition.
After Paul Klee
My legs blew out
through my ears
and my heart spun
on multicolored discs
suspended in deep space.
No breastplate necessary.
The arrows can no longer
penetrate my porous,