Chamber 1

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Listening

I am listening for a sound beyond sound

that stalks the nightland of my dreams,

entering rooms of fossil-light

so ancient they are swarmed by truth.

 

I am listening for a sound beyond us

that travels the spine’s

invisible ladder to the orphic library.

Where rebel books revel in the unremitting light.

Printed in gray, tiny words with quicksand depth

embroidered with such care they

render spirit a ghost, and God,

a telescope turned backwards upon itself

dreaming us awake.

 

Never-blooming thoughts surround me

like a regatta of crewless ships.

I listen leopard-like,

canting off the quarantine of bodies

sickened by the monsoon of still hearts.

There is certain magic

in the heartbeat which crowds the sound I seek,

but it is still underneath the beating I wish to go.

Underneath the sound of all things

huddled against the tracking dishes

that turn their heads to the sound of stars.

 

I am listening for a sound unwound,

so vacant it stares straight with the purity to peer

into the black madness of time

sowing visions that oscillate in our wombs

bearing radiant forms as the substrate of our form.

 

When I look to the compass needle

I see a blade of humility

bent to a force waylaid like wild rain

channeled in sewer pipes.

Running underground

in concrete canals that quiver,

 

laughing up at us as though we were lost

in the sky-world with no channel for our ride.

 

I am listening for a sound

in your voice,

past the scrub terrain of your door

where my ear is listening on the other side.

Beneath your heart where words go awkward

and light consumes the delicate construction of mingled lives.

I can only listen for the sound I know is there,

glittering in that unpronounceable, stateless state

quarried of limbs so innocent

they mend the flesh of hearts.

 

 

Compassion

Angels must be confused by war.

Both sides praying for protection,

yet someone always gets hurt.

Someone dies.

Someone cries so deep

they lose their watery state.

Angels must be confused by war.

Who can they help?

Who can they clarify?

Whose mercy do they cast to the merciless?

No modest scream can be heard.

No stainless pain can be felt.

All is clear to angels

except in war.

 

When I awoke to this truth

it was from a dream I had last night.

I saw two angels conversing in a field

of children’s spirits rising

like silver smoke.

The angels were fighting among themselves

about which side was right

and which was wrong.

Who started the conflict?

 

Suddenly, the angels stilled themselves

like a stalled pendulum,

and they shed their compassion

to the rising smoke

of souls who bore the watermark of war.

They turned to me with those eyes

from God’s library,

and all the pieces fallen

were raised in unison,

coupled like the breath

of flames in a holy furnace.

Nothing in war comes to destruction,

but the illusion of separateness.

I heard this spoken so clearly I could only

write it down like a forged signature.

I remember the compassion,

mountainous, proportioned for the universe.

I think a tiny fleck still sticks to me

like gossamer threads

from a spider’s web.

 

And now, when I think of war,

I flick these threads to the entire universe,

hoping they stick on others

as they did me.

Knitting angels and animals

to the filamental grace of compassion.

The reticulum of our skyward home.

Chamber 2

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Temptress Vision

A temptress vision has encircled me like a

willful shadow of a slumbering dream.

Is it the powerful light of purpose?

If I squint with all my strength I may see it.

Always must it be inside of me

like a pilot fish inseparable from its host.

It fearlessly drinks my essence.

Such a bitter taste I muse.

Spit it out upon your table of perfection.

Compare this grain of sand with your galaxy.

This spire of sorrow with your deepest eye.

If my callous mind can see you,

there are no interventions.

No pathway away.

Convergence.

 

I am a lock-picker.

A tunnel-digger.

A fence-cutter of the wicked watchers.

A traveler that has sought

the mystery that eludes all but the outlaws.

The wild-eyed, unrelenting fools of purpose

that remain outside the laboratory of wingless flight.

 

You are the eternal Watcher

who lives behind the veil of form and comprehension,

drawing forth the wisdom of time

from the well of planets.

You cast your spell and entrain all that I am.

Am I just a fragment of your world?

A memory hidden by time?

A finger of your hand driven by a mind

unfamiliar with skin.

Touch yourself and you sense me.

Visions wild with love.

Splendor that beckons like a secret whisper of gladness

spread on the winds by an infinite voice.

The sound of all things unified.

I am part of that voice.

Part of that sound.

Part of that secret whisper of gladness.

 

This limitation must end in lucid flesh.

The dream of sparks ascending

quickening the cast of hope.

Avoid the brand of passivity

the signs complain.

Shun manipulation before you are stained.

Spurn all formula and write new equations

in the language of sand.

Heed no other,

nor listen to the seduction of holy symbols

standing before the windows of truth.

Define from a foreign tongue.

 

These are the battered keys

that have led me to unlocked doors.

Doors that collapse at a mere breath

and behind which

lay more pieces to collect for the Holy Menagerie.

The never-ending puzzle.

 

All the stars in the sky

recall the purpose of your hallowed light.

Burn a hole through the layers.

Peel all the mockery away.

Enjoin the powers

to answer this call:

Bring the luminous vision

hidden behind the whirling particles

of the Mapmaker.

Let it enter me

like a shaft of light that enters

a cave’s deepest measure.

Ancient fires still burn in these depths.

Who tends them?

What eyes are watching?

Waiting.

Waiting for time’s flower to bloom.

To submerge in the relentless subtlety

that moves beyond my reach

with a jaguar’s stealth.

To dream of elder ways

that leap over time

and leave behind the puzzle of our making.

 

O’ temptress vision

you steal my hunger for human light.

If there is anything left to hollow

let it be me.

If there is anything left to cage

let it run free.

If there is anything left to dream

let it be our union.

 

 

 

 

Language of Innocence

When a river is frozen,

underneath remains a current.

When the sky is absent of color

beneath the globe another world comes to light.

When my heart is alone

somewhere another heart beats my name

in code that only paradise can hear.

 

Is my heart deaf

or is there no one

who can speak the language of innocence?

Innocence, when words

suffer meaning and gallop away in its presence.

I have seen it.

Felt it.

I have loosened its secrets in the blushing skin

when upturned eyes witness its home

and never turn away.

And never turn away.

 

There is this world

of slumbering hearts and hollow love,

but it cannot carry me to daylight.

My craving is so different

and it can never be turned away.