One knows the Sun for its continuously circulating
eyelashes, for its insectile gaze, its ocean
of bearded reefs sunken below a forest
spun from hairs of light streaming through a face
that drinks from the bloodstream of infernal gestation
in the gardens of endless possibility slowly
brewing the turmoil of worlds;
for a sleeping nutcase with cracks
barely concealing a brain about to hatch
a superheated paradise where dragon wings
conquer the skies above a sea of multifaceted eyes
always watching seldom spied from
way out here on Earth where
we have always tried to hide
every single day of our lives
out in the open under the sky
the Sun remains the only one
that knows everything we've done.



Our blue star roils
coronal parachutes detach
soaring on thermal updrafts
before succumbing to the vacuum
a silent shriek of fading bat wings
converge into a halo of cloudscape
in an outer realm so far beyond
the cauldron which feeds it
enormous tidal spurts of ejecta
celebrate in molten triumph
licking the void with sudden languor
and while in full blown possession
continues to evolve every living day.
We are watched like clockwork
by the scintillating eyes of the Sun.  




for Andrew Thomas Phillips

Artificial lucidity stares back
from the future accomplished. 

Having engineered a hole 
in xeroxed black and white
we peer through just like a window 
pressed between the leaves of a book.

A marker used to keep track 
of our progress and saved 
to escape through once 
the story is done.  

The tome put away on a shelf in a room 
of the basement of a house on the moon.

(A crease in the paper across the bridge 
of the nose underlines the left eye out in 
the dark half of a hypnotic magician's
divided face folded back into the heart) 

You are sorely missed, and the feeling 
we will never meet again intensifies 
because we achieved our past 
set in concrete, and memory 
remains the only portal to  
the future we'll ever know.

SL/C 9/10/15--Five days ago,
you would've been forty-five.
I've found you after all these years.