power issues

power issues
power issues

Moon Phase


Sunday, April 17

Home on the Range


Thursday, March 31

Tender Narcissisms

Dreaming, in solitude, tender Narcissisms;
these silent songs are running
through this body
 as blood in the night
the stars are in there and
still memory is but a  simulcrum -
all that remains of event -
dreams dreams dreams

consider reality as so small and
light so intricate in its
relationship with matter,
 so structured such that
 all which is not 'now'
 truly becomes dream.

Goethe thought so.

it is a thought has become my solace

It is almost so
that our frail fears of
 impermanence have created these
 delusions of solidity which
haunt us with the
complicity we attach
to events in this world

this world drifting in dream

madly swirling in
convection around event
stretched between its
the stirrings of the universe

intricate slumbers these -
thinking of the self as an eddy

Friday, February 5

Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
         But being too happy in thine happiness,—
                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
                        In some melodious plot
         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
                        And purple-stained mouth;
         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
                And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
         What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
                        And leaden-eyed despairs,
         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
                        But here there is no light,
         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
         Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
                        And mid-May's eldest child,
         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
         I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
         To take into the air my quiet breath;
                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                        In such an ecstasy!
         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
         No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
         In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
                        The same that oft-times hath
         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
                        In the next valley-glades:
         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

Tuesday, April 14

the white room

all night i lay
a shadow in the white room
moveable parts
every hour
on the hour

depending on the spectators
down to the half hour
to the
fifteen minute
reification of Miss Prim
what started
the process
felt like a spider
and so
a life sized mannequin
was required
for the purposes
of rest
oh yes
sleep would've been
most welcome
yet rest
within a vigil

the body was moved
all around the floor
the plaque
was placed
the door sealed
such that the light

was evenly diffused
along the walls
the absence of colour
to emphasize
the figure
it's primary coloured contrasts

in repose
a pile of limbs
a faceless creature

of fine hatched silver
always open
balls and sockets
ropes through the torso
to join
then carefully cut
sourced in a timeless responsibility

Sunday, March 8

The Canonization - John Donne

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
         Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
         With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
                Take you a course, get you a place,
                Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king's real, or his stampèd face
         Contemplate; what you will, approve,
         So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
         What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
         When did my colds a forward spring remove?
                When did the heats which my veins fill
                Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
         Litigious men, which quarrels move,
         Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
         Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
         And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
                The phœnix riddle hath more wit
                By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
         We die and rise the same, and prove
         Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,
         And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
         And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
                We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
                As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
         And by these hymns, all shall approve
         Us canonized for Love.

And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love
         Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
         Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
                Into the glasses of your eyes
                (So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
         Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
         A pattern of your love!"

Thursday, February 19

love poem

the Vala billows in winds of change
between the seeds of dreams and
dancing chaos
is the midst of rapture
visions hold us there
within the song of rhapsody
flinging forget-me-nots in the void
soul incubant in the matrix
intrinsic in its virtue
extrinsic in its vice
that chasm
which is open
to the grounds of truth
that sunken place where the sense when falling
finds necessary to accept
as a given reality
where the compass needle at any one time is
what the heights address
in order to orient themselves
the parted skies
above the abyss
milk drops down to this point
anything that will do any good
must observe this point
where it lands
at any one time
i am breaking open
my nadirs exposed
to let all gold in,
innocence will blare like
dunchen blasts
over the breadth of horizons

Monday, October 13

folly II

A distinct but abstract attributive point of nadir
is a faultline,
the crack in the teacup,
the metaphysical wasteland
the point of address
open to the skies
where the water and the gold falls to
where all the holes touch ground
with their silver toes
with their insular woes
this is where
the atrocity is
where the abomination
presently exists
where the truth
has its place
where every intellect must collect
to make its point.

Monday, September 29

shadow of a heart

i jumped into my own shadow
 playing with this heart
exposed the darker
shadows of alterity
catching 'em -
 sending 'em back
to where they came from  

for all these shades
have their origin:

here in this place
i am
dancing off
a spider's bite
aiming for
incredible heights

this self's fool
needing to
the music -
at the very least
refusing to be
by any
shadow of a heart

Sunday, September 28


i would rather
drink from the cup
that is you
your body
your intellect
than demolish the vessel
desire is marbling the clay of me
i am in flux
i am on fire
in time
be just as rock -
tempered by such forces
my opinionated mind
seeks to be dunked
in cool water -
a newly forged sword

recognition, the pendulum, oscillations

an adult
is a child's expectation
a child
is perhaps an adult's expectation;
in this way the world runs upon
each other's expectations
where these worlds

while walking down paranoid streets today
all out of sorts
ducked into an art gallery
fear in the centre 
of a cultural representation,
and agreed;
 a program
a while ago
about buried treasure
mosaic frescos
unearthed in an old city
showed nature
for the purposes
of instilling fear
into a populace
heaven and hell created:
wielded dystopias

 walked down dysmorphic streets today
objective or subjective
 in a state
of fear
or mild anxiety

the opposite exists
which is what it is
and help
is always at hand

solutions in the morning
to come to nothing
is not lost

this fiasco seems contrived
is all too libelous
to be real
even paranoia is real
up to a point
 delicacy of the point
self importance
has no point
self knowledge is the key

addicts of hierarchy
where life
is a struggle for gain
their illusion
under a slanderous delusion

delusions of grandeur
blank looks
fears of manipulation
more blank looks

the hold is full
of bilge 
of feeling
in a stagnant pool

is the only

 the subjective past is
 a sack of lovers
collective noun : a sphinx
one is a male
one is
the female sphinx
her emancipation is free
his may take some time

the origin of this problem
 is shame
one of these pivotal points
upon which fate turns

there are opposites
upon which this fate turns


grey matter
virtual reality
of the senses

a fear
more fears

the point of the sword.
punctilio of thought
grace under fire
water under a rock

but this life has become a game
a nasty game
when the
is the tare
that's when
becomes an accusation
conflated extremes
is what reality is

Saturday, September 27

The Minimalist

sometimes i think thou art a flower expanding
sometimes i think thou art a fruit breaking from its bud
- William Blake

a small pile of earth
in the middle of a vast floor space
hovering above it
 a pair of Sphinge
used for various purposes
open to the scene
the air
all the elements
of a life
each in its place
dried flowers hanging upside down
walls of stone
alcoves holding
small objects
and mice

the occasional bird visits
the fire burns
on lonely nights
while the vigil
the dreamer

the suspended Sphinges
glint in the light
made of brass
they are like small deities
asking riddles
answering them
in turn

pages turn
incense burns
the cauldron bubbles
bread is broken
baked on stones

from willow picked
out of the past
dreams into form

roses grow
at the sill


cherries in a bowl
upon a small table
which rocks