seed 4 (ἐπιτάφιον)

a hypothetical surface of the earth he must have followed some glimmering instinct a citizen of the great universe to which he owed a growing allegiance as his understanding developed the imbalance of a goddess falling back on a bed of clay and stung by the sun he bathes in the wind on my bed brushes his teeth and his eyes open to the clear space in front of him

seed 3

song-making rumbling and descending putting lengths of torn tape on her stomach pleas for honesty found in Ian's loft wander like a cloud to the corners of the sea white hot electrocharged graffiti glyph barbs arcing around it like an atom maybe the essential atom (I saw in meditation)

seed 2

in the lean myrtle imagelessness is the small drift of rain on paper ready and concussed by dreams to begin the magic work turned towards itself which is the empty geoid pining toward the moon some remnant pleasant memories of dream girls from west or long-haired and loose perhaps just young

seed 1

synesthetic ululating curtains caught the sun in such a way the room inhaled red then breathed out blue sowing seeds as early as I could that year everything in this life is holy like a wild bird in a wild egg you sang a song in your deep effulgence on the fire escape a source of craving when water is better but not as good

haiku

Sad thoughts;

outside, the

wind picks up

haiku

cat eyes

blink at

bright leaves falling

haiku

Stars above house's eaves,

take out the trash;

a warm November.

haiku

frosted clover patch

still shaded--

cold fingers!

haiku

Hanging the

chalkboard –

First snow

Gladstone

the cast above us revolves

its quiet no longer begun

the metal thieves have been warned

still one trashy night I circled,

the purling motors in conference

like rams breathing mist

then flew enraged, tandem

saw the big one screech

in the possum-filled night

it is the same but much more

the lobe-slowed voice blurs and

everything is thin

a glad thought freezes in steam

next door the blue furl

seen from down roller-girl hill

underlit in a halfwooded mind

maybe it will stay empty forever

where crickets slip from rain

THE DREAM IS ALIVE

Looks like I'll be pumping up the old life raft for a journey back, of sorts. After years of self-imposed exile in the wordless universe, I now toss my OSTRAKA (ὄστρακα) into the THALASSA (Θάλασσα). This blog is hereby blogged-on-again.