When in the middle of the night

Waking on a sudden zap

You think on your mountain of piled sins

And in each instance

See reflected the ignorance of children

Then you imagine that you are without aim

And then betray your sense of valuelessness

Then at certain dark predawn moments

Gather puffs of ominous uncertainty

You see how far from our daily questions

The deep sense of the real can flow

And full stop…

Nights of rocket fuel
Silver lines of the gloaming
Which takes on no characteristics of the dawn
How many people are there to think you good thoughts on the way to the angels?
How many are there to think you darts and malice on the sinking spiral?
How connected are we, minds to minds?
How does the flute trill and whisper?
How can it be that there are none others that know this?
The happiness of the days is mixed with ancient memories of dryads
The scent of the flock is of a woman you once knew
How happy the child, how happy the dog
What questions have you for the oracle?
What would you have of my mind?
What theorems and puzzle pieces gather in your box in the corner?
Whither the tiger? And whither the lamb?
Who holds the silence of eternity to their heart? Yet…. can we see that none is there but ourselves?
All is one, all is one, all is one
Nighttime on the Danube, travels the three toed sloth
And nighttime on the Thames, travels the sloe-eyed gin
Feathering together, we make waves for posterity
Feathering together, we become
Written on a phone. Writing on a phone is different from writing on a computer is different from writing on paper. Different words come out. Different brain sectors engage.
Book Samples:

On my throne I command the birds
To sing me
Pop songs
But they persist in their insolence
Of song bird revels #poetry

A time to love and a time to kill
A time to devour all the pills
#poetry #ziggomatickeys #ebook
$1 a month perks
Nifty web art + words project:
Book sample:
Book: “Ziggomatic Keys” #poetry
For the audiophile:
Book: “The Driftwood of Our Live Washed Up on Some Foreign Shore” #poetry

The Broad Avenues of the Bright Dawn

Snapping through the lists

Deleting everything

Running out of ideas

Locking down all avenues of creation

Triggering the answers

When all things are known,

There is nothing left to say

Cutting off all privacy

Derision heaping on the creationists

Bring all your petty works

Eliminate the creation sum cogitatum

Slide the locks not onto the wrists

But rather, free all man

Capitulate not,

But trimph

Capture the pure land of morning

Stumble not down dark alleyways

But walk in the broad avenues of the bright dawn

Silver your flesh with the blue pigments

Come into your power

The vines spotted with disease,

And covered with pollinators

Still going strong

Grinding the ashes into the floors

Bringing up the motions of solitude

Collapsing the wave of unfeeling

Wreaking havoc on the twelve steps

Taking your pills

Coming together; coming apart

Sliding the tumblers on the cosmic locks

Hearing them click into place

Opening the doors to transcendence

Broken Door

A broken door signifies
Yet all our entreaties win nothing
To our aid our neighbors are deaf
But to enforcement of curfew they are not
A trial at rest slips into motion
A broken tool sits on the bench
But the smith is forever departed
The lifted cleric gives no more solace
Dawn prayers for the faithful are called

At half past dawn, I rise