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 Lou Reed

Pass through the fire up ahead,
One I wanted to be my friend said.

Lou you somehow plugged in to the machine
music for all our dreams, a bit of magic in
everything, and some loss to even things out.

When you passed on to the other side I learned
how a person can transmutate themselves
into the expansive essence of the universe. 

For someone who touched so many lives
youve filled in the shades of our hearts with
your ghost. Youre there behind every cloud
with your sunglasses on. Flown into 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.  



In our craft a boat is built
Around us which carries us home
On a cradle floating down the river
Coursing through the thicket of our hearts
Pounding in unison at the door of our song
Escaping between the bars of a cage
Fashioned of pure molten nickel iron 
Spun into the flowering gravity bound well
Beyond our electromagnetic capacity to resist



When I lower 
my eyelids
Down here 
in the basement

Shutting out this 
city neighbor
Hood I can begin 
to hear the wind

Ruffled fur and smell 
the decaying mouse
Making no sound 
outside my window



The stars 
captured mayflies 
in crystalline suspension
 echo their harmonies.

Each  unique instrument
across this spectrum
adds to the symphony
  of the multiverse.

Hearts explode 
within the macroplasm.
 Lungs expand and collapse here.

Shadows of  these events 
seen as  grotesque forms  
interplay against the interior
of these lit up circus tents.

  The filaments of rungs 
to which we've clung 
remain as diminishing
 notes ever present. 

  We who are shown clearly 
are now fleeting
  from the point of view 
of the stars 



Just because I dreamed that I fell off the Earth 
and while I dropped through outer space slung 
shot from our planet's thrall and out to bank 
about the Sun only to be further outward flung 
to drop away from our fuzzy gray Oort Cloud 
and glowing Astrosphere into the spinning 
gravity well of the nearest star system only 
about four light years away from here and 
dried like a mummy on the way only to be 
resurrected on another planet in a drop of 
water doesn't mean it couldn't really happen. 



How the cry of a gull or the roar of the wind
becomes our story, how we are written into it.
This is how we are drawn into the ocean. 

The odyssey I've fallen into has passed depths
to be measured against the brightness of a dream
and reflected back at me, the haunting image
of my past's alternate selves, one in particular
heading the rest, a forgotten waif, made the best of it,
Pinky's there, in his vest, the rest in their Sunday worst.

The host of forgotten fantasies, to which I toast
a languid goodbye, at the most, drifting along
unheard of among cities on the coast
where the foam of waves whispers my name
in your hoarse voices, so the crash of waves
upon the rocks cries out your names in my own voice
and mingled, our soliloquy melts upon the winds above the sea.



Point the deathbone
At the moon, anoint
A blue ceramic bowl
With drops of blood

Study the splatters
Of streaking fluids
The way you would
A snowflake or tulips

Enter the cavern of
All of our fears so
We can cast shadows
On Christendom

A patch of leprosy
Grows upon the thigh
Of a virgin while they
Thrive ruining resistance

As the ocean wind on
The sails of a lost
Ship captured by us
With persistence

Turns out to reflect
The worst piracy of
Our lives stared at
In mirrors of our I



A very old tree totters over 
Into the wildwood far away
With a sound approaching 
The memorial of thunder
To its standing survivors
Outspread in their foothold
Through funereal compost
Melding with mossy fungus 
Under the loam of bedrock
Adding another microtone 
To the growing forest song