Language infects.

Only the blind see the stars for what they are.

A Dead Point

There is a difference between attaining knowledge from within and from without ones self; the apparent form of each speaks with the language of this difference. But the space between those equidistant limbs is much like the starving branch which feeds them; never can this void meet the home which named it place. If only this point could learn to consume the line; air would at last abandon the notion of thirst and realize its need for water.

The colors which imbue this sunset appear to leak from without and beyond their very dissimilitude, seeping into a stochastic matrix which supposes to prefigure those hues in all of their possible configurations; as though my irises, believing that they amount to its reciprocal expression, will refuse to assent to the obstinacy of that false infinity until proven its equivalent.

Hysterical Blindness

As light drawn in excess will the curtain appear
With abstract remission that its witness must fear
For a life thus dirempted by this veil once sheared
Will forget twice what bound it to that which adhered

In the Shadow of Satellites

Does the moon presume itself the source of night
In casting shade on its vernacular with light
And when repeating this its dawning will it find
It speaks in retrograde the language of the blind

Voided Touch

Who knew this hand of emptiness
Could shade in hues so clearly grasped
And why such subtle loneliness
Must bind with linens gently clasped

But furrows formed within that space
Thus we are seeds to honored birth
Which must redress with pristine lace
Each curve upon this naked earth

Atropine Syntax

The nerve metes vesseled inches mending labyrinths made agatine
When furrows blend in backwards meter fleet past context illumine
Through sheets replete with diction sieves geometry born lacustrine
While victims flee this vellum dawn which blots out logic serpentine

The Grace of Datura

The ticking web untangled thieves yet fabric deep within the spine

Of spindles dully lathed through windows paved by rooms it must divide

By nine to nines spare not the vines which train that mirror alkaline

And shines the soil free of terror idling in this baseless night

The Flame Which Fears the Darkness

This planet which remains dead must bring itself to life, but in the culmination of that effort will again congeal into the static lifeform which conditions the renewal of that illusion. Meditations may never conceal their subject, and despite the myriad of disciplines that name contains these cannot escape the force of the body which each revolve around. It is in the denial of this broken slate that masters find their true power, which at every step deprives of each his very soul. What is professed as a search for knowledge of what lies beyond oneself has its object arrive from within, but is now found in that alter genesis to extinguish from without the same spark. Just as a match brought too quickly to equilibrium after its striking, any economy of non-being cannot live without a mind capable of knowing when to let itself go. This escape from the body is but a trial whose defendant flees beyond an endless jurisdiction, of which mind alone as judge may give a proper sentence. But where exists the court within this void? And where too a state which would validate its authority? I am afraid there is no space here I can stand upon, or even rest.


The history of silence writ
In solemn blood erased with rust
From iron cage beset by verse
Sin must pour upon the heavens
And with each rain each drop forgave
The infinite attuned cast finite
This sea which forms consumes not war
But lakes still speaking venous mores

Oblique Asymptote

Although this spite does rarely lend
It must presume an exact end
Toward space which marks a curve without
The will once caught with shores devout

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