1

Following

I'm not going to write about names, skins or bones,

Nor reigning innocent in the eyes of beasts.

Nor shall I pretend knowledge of divine thrones.

Your reciprocations make such “feasts”

Look as if  ignorance were all “we” could plan

(“We” since, with or without you, I'm an only).

I'd honor you here, but there's not much this can –

But for yourself I guess this will read lonely.

I'd praise you here, but my poor variations

Commend me not well, Fate of your creations

Far greater than my dumb notes to Gloria.

I yet know not why you read this childish writ,

Nor why you attend a would-be prostitute.

How shall I please whose powers look infinite? –

Odd vessel am I, not much an attribute.

The worth of words written here isn't a midge.

Yet you reply by sun and excellent deeds.

Why 'tween no one like me and you such a bridge?

Yet playful you came, like the blooms of these seeds,

Even a sovereign crowned to a bug gnats shun.

If I'm not, then, dead to the light of your sun

Unveil of our word, this day, through euphoria.

2

Hibernation

To the holy Spirit this revelation,

As if I need address my greatest essence,

Who more knows me than I, and all Creation.

I've lived dark years, not much your efflorescence.

I've been a font of curses, blessings made mute.

Damned to life's pains, denied common rich treasures,

I was gave constant threats with which to dispute.

Why against your own self do you deal such measures?

And what this “poet” in vain on whom you look?

I know not the Crown. I can write no such book.

Yet this poem calls upon that priority,

For I'm not alone: you dwell, too, in the skies.

Resurrect us, then, we each a passageway.

I faith your sun's light is not but a disguise,

Yet 'neath which I've lived shamed, unknown, to this day,

Justice and Truth having not full dimension.

Why do you not clothe yourself, Geist, as you are?

Of your own surpassing you kill most mention.

As like you are pleased your own realms be at war

You reward what withers and punish what blooms.

Well, though I bear your strife, I wear not your plumes.

I guess glory's not been my authority.

3

Isolation of the Unemployed Nurse

Now actuality, now reality,

Now the other, now the one, now in between

In equilibrium’s brisk vitality

That weds correspondence to make here a scene.

Neither swallowed entire by gravity,

Nor radiating beyond integration,

We join convexity to concavity,

Rousing this path of occurring location.

This design, two in one, that keeps as it moves,

This is, of two ways, which way to "God" approves,

Engages unions of substance with essence.

Comprehension, revelation, candescence

Write this quintessence of the deep and the high.

Pair-rooted fairness in brilliant florescence,

This teat is a lamp indicating the sky.

I am that you beare me, that I not beare all,

The void that is my mass ever but a scent.

Envelop, enter into, my rising fall

Where not yet knowing all is enlightenment.

We will meet one another beyond space-time,

Our event, our wedding, a wonder sublime,

And, knowing, giftwrap worlds of bursting presence.

4

Leading Saga

Now another caesura . . . now a silent ring:

Here I knead, here I prepare another pass,

Baking letters to see what will touch, what bring.

How startled I’d be, little more could surpass,

If I could please you with this frivolous whirl.

I sigh – such as this are empty fulfillments.

What good thing is done by this unfurling furl?

What lamps glow bright that remain not concealments?

All the damned years and yet nothing this commands.

I've summoned frontiers not bound by space-time's bands,

Arriving, but to cause me no less to doubt.

Could we accommodate I’d be your mind's tongue,

That all pierce your depths to savor your spices,

Would you be my breath I could say that I've sung,

No longer fixed in stupidity's vises,

Nor confined to what some moron has ordered.

Well, no princess am I, comely and shapely –

I've long been at war, my triumphs quick-bordered.

Were I divine I guess that would be apely,

Two eyes peering into, out of, a cavern.

Still, I prefer you to the drunks at the tavern.

So tell the Word this word cannot be without.

5

Orientating Brick

Do poems have more value if we call them prayers?

Yet, mine have brought me mostly indignations.

Even inspired, I'm the only one who cares.

My seeds too foreign for human plantations,

I write to you, instead, as reverence.

Idealism's fool, this not the harlot's way,

Worth of the impossible less than immense,

How can this give purpose to the light of day?

Though it was challenge I chose by which to steer.

I measured by degree, not thing to count dear.

I remain like you: no clear identity.

I leave this up to you as to its meaning.

For without your response it hasn't much blood.

I seek the time no more words I'll be preening –

Far less is ease the more I've drowned in their flood.

Why do a thing but because one has the guts

If nothing the better be by it at all?

The chase unceasing, to which rest never cuts,

Pitiful my command via words I sprawl.

Thus I write them to you who knows why to do.

I faith, with this draft, that I'm finally through,

Addressed to a sympathetic entity.

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