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I paint, make collages and mixed media work. I write poetry. I reflect on the Tao.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


A reality not quite believed in
permeated the aura of quiet desperation:
fissures in the fusion so carefully crafted.

I dreamed of perfect poems written by perfect poets,
elegantly rendered images glistening anew
in the dawn of unexpected epiphanies
poignant recollections lost in luminous transcendence.

You dreamed behind the veil of things unspoken,
dark thoughts that might crack the shell of light
hidden mysteries to be betrayed in perfect poise
the ambivalence of words pregnant with black magma.

The bride’s veil, a disembodied voice.

The autograph book, archaic fragments.

Strange rings, interred meanings.

Faded faces, false resurrections.

The memory box, a dream by Borges.

No answers for these questions
tracings of life’s trajectories
web strands spun by chance and choice:
blind Cletho and Lachesis

Your death the final cutting of the cord
that once bound us only flesh to flesh,
leaving this self in flux oscillating
between the seen and the unseen,
between the known and the unknown,
between the quest and the freedom:
an allegory of unbecoming.