Crafted in mid-suspension ocular lenses
of fused silica as perfect as the concept
in a cryogenic vat slung in low-gravity within
a diametric wave-tank spotless monocles
are fashioned on the far side of the Sun.

Spun to gyroscopic and optimized
along the perihelion of centrifugal accord
at the immaculate point of convergence.
Synthesized under arc lights with precision
by waldos in incandescent laboratories
connected in rotation by concentric rings.

This counterbalanced process exacts
the best impression by gyroscopic equilibrium
remote-controlled with unparalleled finesse
justified from geo-synchronous orbit
two astronomical units from Earth.

At the instant of gravitational parity
the optimal design is achieved.
The android midwife delivers the contacts
in just under thirty-six weeks.
Their virtually limitless focus
calibrated by the fulcrum of the Sun

              art by Greg Davis



 The snow fell like ashes
  from the ghost of a Pharaoh

Into a flattened field of urns
  lined up beneath a sheet

 An alabaster garden in the act 
  of growing nothing

This bedding the hollow
  of seeds which expand 
   into the arboretum of dreams

The salt flats of memory
   the whispers of the wind
 The miracle of telling
  it all to a friend. 

Outside the frosted window 
 where pain and pleasure
   flourish every day

In equilibrium upon 
  the streaming rays
  of the ever passing Sun 

Whose power did not
  diminish even while it hid
 away in the distance 

Instead with a twist 
 of its lashes thunderstruck
To open the eye
  of the hurricane blizzard 
 staring right at you  
  like the mirror of a king

Standing in the kitchen 
 with a cup whose steam 
drifts into the arriving light 



In my idle quest to find good tales
 to read the farther from the winding 
trail I'd stray the better the tension 
ratcheted up the later awake
 would I have to stay riveted
 in my nightmares that blossomed 
open from inside my head spilling 
out like the darkest octopus ink 
flooding into my room
I couldn't resist its riptide any more
 than I could stop the onset of time
When I stepped out into my backyard
 in the deep Ozark woods that nocturnal 
dream's ink would follow on my heels 
as I wandered further into the ominous 
thicket behind my yard. The point of taking
 a walk out in the middle of the forest 
at night with no one else around
 is to enjoy the evening silence 
and some solitude blessed by the moon
 and starlight. That can't be recreated
 Not in print, nor in memory. Not with 
mirrors, not with words. Being alone 
remains the only thing that doesn't cost 
your soul. Keep the change
share it with the owls and the rabbits
who cares. None of these creatures read
and neither do most people, mind you
 Only a certain kind of human does that
 One of the rarest beasts who dares 
to be captured by his own self hypnosis
As such may become trusted ally 
or the deadliest of enemies
It's difficult to know which 
on a case by case basis
Is it because humankind 
are mercurial and chameleonic 
and will often change their minds 
on a dime? Tricksy is 
as tricksy does
I once heard told
How do I know so much 
about humans anyhow, you ask?
It's because I happen to be one
Now don't get alarmed
no need to back away 
or relocate yourself
I'm as harmless as the horizon 
at twilight. You can trust me 
during magic hour
It's a brief period when the solar 
rings of power
 adjust their synchronization
 Light bathes the landscape
 while shadows hide in crannies 
The adjustment is subtle
 and happens at about the same rate 
as your breathing
 Before you know it all the forces
 of light and darkness
 have balanced themselves
 out around you
There seems to be 
an equilibrium reached 
on the inside, as well 
I don't know what 
to say except that this 
story is being told 
for no one. I think 
a lot of people 
would think it was fascinating 
and exciting. Yet this tale's 
only told for the benefit of the teller
The series of incidents described 
helps him hone his chops
To become a better 
teller of the legend
 he lives. He must first 
disclose the story
 to no one. In all of its painful 
and intricate detail
 The painting of a poem. Hung 
on the wall of a sleepy time 
gorilla museum 
located in the annex
 of a forgotten estate 
on an abandoned farm 
out in some lonely place  waiting
 for its new tenant to arrive
to get framed and hung 
up on the wall



The rising enigma that 
 spans the horizon 
fluctuates in silence
 Do the plants which 
blossom today know
 anything about the 
flowers of tomorrow? 
 For that matter 
Do the trees in your
 yard suspect there 
are more like them 
 across the way in ours?
If they can sense each 
 other in direct proximity 
the way we see the stars
 Their myriad leaves scenting 
one another in the breeze 
 The trees don't dream
 of meeting one another 
from across their vast
 space between them because
they know better than us 
 that time is not the
illusion but rather