Hunter Hansen

The First Day

Poem by Hunter Hansen

In this you show me I have won
With ever so subtle subtleties
Unknown to common man
The riddle begins

Strange, this sound of stone
Far from the icy nucleus of Nuuk
I told Jan Johannson it was but
An endless stream, but not believing
He fled, perhaps to Khomat
In cognito, without repose or drone
Perhaps to Burma, to sidious squalor
Or to America, land of the free
Home of slaves to sin
Watching the sun kissing the horizon
The Cherokee migrations passing like herds
Now long gone, slain in want and greed
Next, I see, the entries in a space diary
He left for me, before he left
A scribbled nonsense with uncritical nuance
About his plans to venture to the shipyards of La Ceiba
About his dreams of enormous horses
About the last bright light behind them
And how he longed for that light, now withering
Left only in the starlit shadows of the chill air
This scratch was but an encounter passage into a mind
So troubled, (I see now why he is no longer here) ,
Then and now, he told of his forgotten love
So dear, he cannot remember, yet only feels
Noa, Noa, gone neurotic,
In the cold and lonely two-sided threshold
Telling little white lies and black lies once to her
“Where were you? And what is this you paint? ”
“A portrait. Of Tracy.”
“How beautiful, so colorfully harmonic and sad.”
The inedible dormouse scurrying the floor
Squeaking, little echo of night slightly below my feet
Jan, the elegant punk, if you could term him that,
Now left perfectly alone to lounge about
Like me
Only I in comfort and he in a cell in which he trapped himself
A pullulating black feel the night carries
Out of the clearing place on little wings in silver mornings
To aid an expansion mood, pulling on a line
Of fragile sanity with little clarity to use
Unrequited for now, in mean time I weld my steel and bone
To Sonol; in the womb of night he sings to my welding
Of man and machine
This vulcan music, sonorous amour, like organza in the holy day, wafting an essence of Phaedra in the tangerine haze so bright and early.
Coisa’s second came to call about blue in green, appropriate shades, signals of things to come
This diary so strange, finding fragments everywhere
And pages on the floor collecting dust, awaiting my finding to examine and shed light on this odd persona
“And why he left, what for…”
Another page entitled, The Vibe Garden of Mumbai
In it I read, of a girl he met in Ipanema one foggy morning
And it all went blank from there in the first memory void
Something else, neatly scrawled: “il giorno fu prima per un giorno” Love and peace…
Flux of thought, this spinner and haze of ink and blood
Overjoyed he was, plain to see, such exuberancy
Top left corner was a mountain drawn, with some side note about being above Chiangmai one day and the woman met there.
The silent fields came calling, and he responded in slow melancholia, crying, so still in vocal psi ululating
Like icebergs floating near Urva-Ursi, cold, barren
Remembering their memories
To read this was an instant in transformation
Into his mind
Another page of sorts, a folded napkin with scribbles:
“Week in Luh Windan”, a place I’ve never heard, perhaps a Mythical land. A makeshift shack, a cozy hut, where we lived
Day one was lax, enough of enigmatic shadows on walls
To color chromatic fantasies, and radiant ice on narrow roads
With loud bells and gongs emphasizing enharmonic partials
To me it looked like Old Brompton Road.
Seeing the solar plexus converge into altitudes on ice
He paused to reflect and then to note a village holiday
Lief Lulla, the one day he met a white woman, at the first gate of Nieve Penitentes at Dante’s anthropomorphic zoo
The raised walk was treacherous, as he passed into that bleak inferno, drifting and glimpsing, at what was termed a deeper extraction from the catacombs.
The next page: “Rising Thermals near Barbary Coast”
The song line he wrote for this was pretty, rough shorn
But just as the carapace hides the delicacy, and the feline pearl
Odd titles, these…another mention of that girl, and steam clouds in Etranon, so grand a finish before your own eyes
Even more so, this complex shape in the sky,
And the garden he mentioned, I recalled, sitting under stars
With the herb man, and a half-dozen north pole Englishmen
A large garden, flowing with feldspar and mica
Among other things, in fields of crystal, the useless panorama
He reminds me of, now a false hope to return to
This native space, populated only by phantoms, knowledge and dust. Out, out, we went, he went, to my backyard, I saw him musing once, in tearful reunions, during a
Delta rain dream, in what he thought was his secret place
It was a close space
Now by the sea, with the conch calling
The silver ball on the windowsill, a third tone talking
To a stick
As a footnote, he told a side story of Kader, the Algerian
Such nostalgia, on the edge band, living hard, following
The call of adventure
Some shimmer of emotion this, as he seemed to write
Through tears, “Goodbye, my brother in arms, it has been long,
But the canyon’s embrace has you in a deadlock; the plains
Are always dry, but a storm warning…”
Like reading through a valley of shadows, almost plowing,
Scanning over more prose, so sublime, as he with himself, argued what he called a theological toss
Causing a groundswell of hatred, among spires
Turning back was no option, ‘twas autumn and regret
Through the collective pain in a quest for paradise
On a half-mooned eclipse, of ellipsis
The reebop came and you knew you couldn’t stop
And so went the second and third voids of memory
Longing for sweet ruska; something so similar
About the women they reap, all similar in one way
I won’t say, and neither did he, along a fading
Moon ridge, and here, another elegy for Rosa
“Does it ever rain up there, where angels live where you reside? ” Traveling a particle path
Over rancid magma, there are times I know you’ll be sad
In generators of glaze, if only to shift the dimension
No matter, it is only a slight return when it’s the pits
Under a cascade of light, acting as the pathfinder on the way when Lake Snow is covered in a veil; since when did he visit Lake Snow?
Seeing the falcon sharpening her talons
Oh, what a beautiful, wicked sight
Still from the heart of darkness, he dead…
A two page leaflet, titled: “Ilira.”
Must have been his ruska, in the pews he saw her one day
The day of the rockers takeover, she sat lamenting
Recovering from a heatherscar, he, not so swift to recover
But beckoned to come on, over
Some isolated assignation foreshadowed by
Swimming cobalt waters, on a day upon musing o’er
The stream with bright fish, so primitive, elegant complex
In their temple, in their ritual
With lindenflowers and carnations waving in diaphanous air
Under the spirit dome,
The patron saint, Kolokol, his virtual dream bells reverentially chiming, flow over this river farm and lonely field, watching the earth dangling beneath the eyes
The shiprock looming over the sidewalk
Unraveling this conversation, slowly going inland
So beautiful, so angelic, none could surpass her
Love osmosis, always returning with memories you cannot part with
On this children’s crusade, such zeal in pursuit,
Death written in water, life’s stolen moment
Youth so swift, so wasted
Wordless life, wordless death, quiet pain
Falling from cliffs of departure
Into seas, suffering from shell shock
He called it a clearing, from borderlands and outerlands
The sudden light now shone on her, this evening afterglow
She in trance stared softly, in war with open mindgames
And to that, the Italian memories, a myth continuity she knew
Running from the solar tribe’s pagan cries
In broad daylight, when Jibral cried in betrayal
The dreamer dreamed his last, in still return he would no more, before the forum, he knew no more but to slowly dissolve, beckoning, upon hearing the cry, they made him bleed.
He had his weaker moments, but now he died,
Was buried in the hidden spring
Locked in Kelvin’s cloud radio, confronting black aether
The chamber of dreams remained sealed,
But all this she knew, young Ilira,
Ah, Teimo schluss, trade winds, white heat,
Of her love denied, lost in the humming air
In F Town, the moon glow lit her face in pallid splendor
She smiled from dead heart, muttering something
About a trumpet, from the stepping stone, and that it was only the nineteenth deal, loving life, keeping those spirits singing;
Closing my eyes, backwards I go, into the future, where Moedra waits
Reflections, inflection, below always with Ilira, this interior journey, this moment, just another memory, the base and apex of a pyramid unscaleable
I shall sit, lounging like a lizard on the patio wall
Maybe Yvonnita will come again
But maybe not
Lord Shield Pakal, in his prison doth she dwell forever
In long continuum, at Lizard Point
Every day I worry, but I shouldn’t, and then
Ilira sang a silver lullaby…
Touching, floating, altered and weightless in a field of confluence, such is the power of an open heart
By word of mouth, you never, but somehow you do still
Love me
Above the clouds I'm settled here, and my words will haunt you
Like they did in Algeciras, where you never meant to be
The Korean one? Never, nor classical thump came close
To my estuary with you in it. I like being here,
You dark-eyed sister, sustainer, those circling globes of yours
I first saw at the river of wood
A really lo fi attenuation, and I never did leave in late October.
Love me, you.
The next one was “Softer Light”, so blurry, I counted this among our trespasses: his writing, my reading
The sky felt more like a low ceiling that day
From behind the shadows, “I remember this day”
A closure in the rain, after cellular automatons
Took that which we yearned for, he longed for
Traversing a primal passage in search for two days
He never found it, en trance, or in subnival
She was in the other world beyond his reach, beyond and within, the sacrifice so dear, to her, to me, to he; at the edge of decaying light he mourned
Forgive me, I lost you.
Colossus of the morning, flee not from the battle but
Face your impending death with solemn equanimity
The continent so deep, the star compass so trustworthy
We cleared ourselves on the Norwegian wooden vessel
And I still remember
But all he has is the pyre of female, another
Having been nakedly lost in the twilight garden without river people, he wrote a note: “This is for Luisa” and it’s here.
Ebb without flow, and some call me Jimmy, for no reason, but telepathy
Over flatlands, beside the snake of earth, you are most lovely against the sky
Suspended feathers in a mumbling, through the fog a heat leak
Of the sun slips through to you,
Smoother than a graceful mastodon, the tranquility bass of your being, with hidden streams to caress the mind,
With no challenging boundaries
Some gain all, in abandoned playgrounds,
Oh how I wish you were there!
But no, choosing the serpent clan you left to hide,
Strutting your wares as a roadside specter and nothing more
I’m not afraid to call you wonderful
This is not the first time I will dip into
The memory pool
Lack of black lines and red circles: none other but Erebus
Erebus, that I remember, that you remember
Suffering from industrial plastination
The shenzhou came and were destroyed
Erebus remains, flanked by cires divam
More sweet nostalgia as I ponder over a sketch, indeed it was Erebus, he never forgot, with it the antenarria shrouded by the end titles, Manhattan style; so blindingly quick
So driven, tuning from the cloud radio over to marine
Lost lakes rippled in calm solitary, calling by stormlight
Moonlight tides carried over in the winding rain,
Jacob’s drum beat the chant of the morning
Coinciding with the mourning
The port of entry was so far, so pitilessly near, in opposite
Cruel irony, so staggering, the drunken…
And what was not heard were careless whispers
At the edge, but a far cry, no trio of peace
Only residues of night, with oceans borrowed,
And much doubt on dark waters,
So Jerewat died this ancient evening I suppose, as he wrote it
Falling highly of no esteemed precipice, as Teimo slew him
“Such punctilious detail”, a subtle body current channeled through the flow of ink in scattered words, as he transmitted in what was once tonight
The red walls of dusk closed in, in reverberate layover
Stormy black skies conquered the nebulous pathway in a time where rocks were nice, and vertical tunnels led to the sorcerer’s temple
Optimal were the days, before he met Favela
An unusual balance, so I beheld, as they called themselves
Cobalt friends
Crooning, from Badaraca, in their deepest dreams,
Before she was laid to waste and subtle shred by the seduction of the minotaur
The drift inside my head passed to soon, the darkest matter lay before me, I knew
More to him than I could think, in such little that he left
In writing
“Leeks Hills”: where the unfamiliar wind was first felt
Once suspended, the feathered skies, feathered downward
Took five, as they turned to stone, called by Tal; coated one
It was a vacant domain, with no name, like one’s slate erased after a lethal blow
In which there was hardly anything new at all, if anything
The neuron lights continued to flicker, leaping over synapses
Opus pocus, poor innocence lost here one gray day
To a alien present in nature, unknown to us and all
Talus: the insane brightness of being shone luminescent
“Lantern Marsh” a similar occurrence
In miniscule below, a folded space, and here is where the line of reality grows thin and dimmer still
Ferns in abundance, with necessary spore
Changing, mutating, fitting needs not met and not needed
It was not long before this undulating terrain gave way to a radiant heart adrift
Like the other Sunday at Vera Cruz
This deliquescing procession of serenity, diaphanous gauze
Subject to cyborg assault upon bilechik mules
Harsh juxtaposition truly, that is but what occurred
On this twisted timeline beyond fleeting space
Lovely Capricorn child, like a peach rose, so delicate
Serac! You filthy murderer! Why? She never deserved to die.
And so he cried, cried for her, for him and more loneliness to live in
The duality of passion, conceived in hearts, born in one to cherish, the other to kill,
And thus she perished at Lantern Marsh
In words I see him shedding the skin, a serpent becoming ever stronger
A swarm of thought…continues.
Tree of the wind, still, so still
Until wrenched into the sky, by vicious white arc spiral
A flow stone, free memory so dense, fleeting, the sand so heavy in one’s hand falling out
Resonate and glow, my loved one
And another…the one seven thousand miles away
Living in a house amid houses on a hill
This moment is a memory, my loved one
Breathing gold, he did, writing clearly vague, such a shifting wheel within the wheels of sanity
This long ritual,
The hyperborea’s ghost, bathed in underground clouds
Traveling, travailing in the sphere of no-form, calling
“Ora, ora, ora”.
Abandoned by the sea, cruelly, beating within Alsema
The African virus raging, open, closed, apart for the healing temple, she cried again.
The loose phrases, they,
Brought, a canopy of shivers
Above my head, slowly in…
Although I shall admit, his record of Malay made me glad
To be here
There, they eat the passengers, perform the coyote’s dance in Arabesque fashion, draining empty time, and have three views of a secret
The empty night, it was when Nival perished harshly
Beyond the shaman he defied, and died
On a bad hare day, he made the ceremonial feast
“The Blackstone Special”. So ignominious.
Tell me he died, not how, leave such ob-scenes to imagination
Forsook his birthright…left me speechless
The Babylon ghost returned to
The memory pool
It rains through the void, this second night of image, of the mind of Jan
Red water pools in the pan, reminding me of the ancient day…
A long day, where Jan and I became two harmonic studies
One, harmonium
Where angels of the calm ocean blessed us in the wake of a passing thought, with dreams in passing
Understanding wildlife as it bloomed around us
Jan shed tears for Ma, she had died so recently
I pulled the elemental trigger and flushed into desert solitaire
Such a slow return, at the edge of everything, I descended
Upon Silk Ridge
We viewed nature, creation, models of my life, the caravan of Souls gone before
“Open your eyes.”
Such a magnificent gallery, like the one at Dahina Ta
With three chambers, beyond four, from a darkened path,
Guarding souls, we crossed ions, into the bestiary
(Jan was always the desperado, he took the hollow flight)
And I drifted into cloud space, falling, flying, dreaming,
The emergence came to mind, flops, this oil click,
Hazard of life
The aftermath of the flight of real images in the ceremony of shadows and the crematory of sight
Snowflakes fell that morning, but I must let go of this
Radiant hive
The amniotic pot boiled over; Jan’s pot, from Mineola Bay
Where he sent a bat too far into the landing cycle
Where he found his alien machinery, destructive forces
Where his other love was raptured prematurely
Where five sticks burning were found
And he never returned hence, but only told me to visit
The pot, he kept, however,
Wonderful ceramic tincture
But such apathy, “The things I tell you, are not always true
After the first jump is when you begin looking skyward”
A slow dissolve from that point on…
The twirling motion of a finch that passed
Luminous, far superior to vole shapes
Without their Far East fusion, as in Iberia Eterea
At 6 or 7, I saw a cloud of promise from my observatory
Then I read, “Iris”
My voyage resumed, the finder of paths reawakened
Through the candor chasm I scrolled, Iris was the one of the few
First met under the Catalonia sundown, the place names
Elude me
The nagual arena holds clear to my mind
This land of look behind
I remember it clearly, like clear water
We danced like water, in an unlit passage, scattered
At the edge
As nothing but dawn prey, when the day began
Hearing the beating heart of the dragon by the lake
In fifth densities we could have seen through a strong eye
But now we are gone, when souls roam, escaping to the moor, through mind tunnels of tattered illusions, and frayed dreams
Physical chemistry, it was no mix, a gesture signal threat, these distant signals.
Outside we danced like sticks, in a labyrinth on a misty night
Spiritually appraising things, like when the dream ghost appeared to the air tribe
Or the descent into Cydonia plains, leaving the skin, to glide
In capricious fashion
The deserted shadows, of what once was, falling away
Isis succumbing to the poisoner meta incognita
Slow faces in hurried crowds, always hiding
Within everyone who is not lonely is someone who is
Someone without one which all else have, just one
A relapse of the clouds and the lights ran quickly
Leaving me to stew, marinate in darkness, these
Eternal words, my currents beneath the shine
He had to have recorded Otranon…
The day, the place, the time, forty-six past noon
Commander and his minions raided,
We fled like a flock of metal creatures fleeing the onslaught of rust growing deadly nearer
A sign, truly wonderful, this half-wolfman perished in the first light
The dying words: “Love…is the devil.” If nothing else,
Jan mutters them
In the temple of St. Cloud
He arranged for a rendezvous at the crossroads
The crossroads…so much in that, I shall not diverge
At Dunwich Beach, in autumn, the proper season
And his mind ran towards the dream
I entered the sixth chamber and stayed, he not knowing why, for I was but dreaming about dreaming, in a silent storm of thought
He toward the dream, I toward the mystic
Kobresia was her name, gleaning from the terrain of memory
I know they never met
Such sweet artificial repose, under winds of time and changes
And he agreed, the shores of Heaven seemed more blissful
We became seekers, we became lost,
We returned, but from defeat emergent
My light returned and more pages I turned, seeing a word:
Antalieh. Those in submission to Pele, sorrowful lost caravan
On their way from wandering to hiding
Of this my eyes never beheld, but he told me in vividity
But a shard to my mind…
And the ghost train too, clambering on invisible rails
Belting the song of a highwire shrimper
Those were the moments before the glass shattered
Revealing the humanity underneath
The moon and stars came to inquire at my pondering
And I in haste replied, “The diaries are of Atlantisian waveform, fluid, like a lost harrow, and you do know of chryse planitia?
They, “We know, flesh reaper. He came to us with Abu Nidal and Shashamani, now in lightning teleportation in which he departs.”
“A luminous progression.” They gave light, ceasing their chatter
The two, brothers of heresy, betrayers at Chukhung
Bringers of deadwood, driving their tank
In their final requiem, before being consumed
By radioactive heavens
My mind wandered over to the lower ground
The land more free to us
As I read, the words…drifted to the lower ground
In subcode
We fell like rain in this life, in subtle rubinox
Evacuating, returning, murmuring,
This pulsing beat of desire, drifting on an iron path
The worms are crawling, hear their wing melodies
The magic of love so real in between
The gray
And the purple
It was our fourth theme, speaking like children
Again, in the catacombs, in search of the pine marten Eden
And the ancient campfire blazing, the steel harmonics
Strange forest dreams, walking amongst sleeping giants
Viewing, hoping for an infinite shore
To digress, but mildly, to tell of Jan’s day inside the whale
It was a grounding place ungrounded
This nihilistic beast eternally swimming, turning in waves
It felt like being buoyant on a motionless deluge
From inside the whale
I can only liken it to floating through the gates of time
It’s my variable, as the sky passes by, the world grows
Strangely dim, in this present moment
The temple, Silene’s temple, shakes, quivers…
The hand of Fatima so near, but repelled by ether vibes
The blood music of the river, and rubber clocks chiming
Never had no love for so long, carbondate it, these
Orchestral textures, on black, preferably, watching the stars
In stochastic motion, annihilating alluvium,
This is my freedom vessel.
Along the interstate, we knew of mantis intentions
Evil intentions, for we saw the road glowing
Knowing of a distant monastery that would warn as such
In blue windings
Thus we spent time in adoration of the wind
Looking, not finding.
I remember a remark he made about an amalgamated man
Playing his alley cat lullaby in low lit corridors
“This is not the time.” Virus B was his fate…sadly
Another sketch, of words, “Lighthouse”
Yes…the resonant landscape, subtle aeon shifts
In it I felt a fortunate slave to nature’s beauty
The spectral simulated tremors, offspring of crystal eyes
It was there, under the deep arch, in nocturnally thin air
Beneath the sky, this quiet companion, silent as pre-history
Experiencing an urban initiation
This health loop continued when he met her
A refuge in Sahara, such sacrament to oubliette study
Upon a blue camel they rode, this termite epiphany
For a running dog, rendered motionless in motion
With the flute and blue filter they rode, under shadow
The future tribe awoke that day, I’m certain
Between the hours of the return, in translocation
This second sight, of systems, egg chambers dreaming
Divine radiance of invertebrates
They spent a night in the mountains,
I just remember leaves or bells
They saw refraction, not on zero ground
Strands of a distant awakening
Oh, Mycelia, why did you die beneath the hive?
The coast was noisy that night, of truth in passing
I sat in my ancestor’s circle, with a skin strip
Thinking it a lovely place to be
Jan was on his stormy seas, in sadness
Teetering on the threshold of eternity
The next page revealed a painting
Of downtown Inaka
Where the waters reaching upward swiftly
He walked upright along the way watching the wings of the fire fall
Stranger yet, this fire in midst of tundra
And waterbass in shallow currents
Hidden slice of Tokyo
In it he tried to find one charming delight
Amid the omnizdrum beating through saffron fires
To complement the sermons
Such an impending sense…of calm,
In the reality incompatibility matrix of matrices
Simply but a dwelling place anew
In narrow gloom
Searching in this open grotto of time lost
But instead allured to the church of anthrax
The liquid air so lush
In it to breathe and contemplate a delicate future
A structured reordination of life and space
In this earth extraction, Bol Baya’s wonderworld
Of nightshade parlor, ruins garden drones
Beyond the zero, finding sanctum
Finding Sirena
In the lost day, it makes sense
Sataranum had long since passed
His ultima thule axed in compunction
Dense fog in night air and low frequency
Makes it hard for lovers to hear and be heard
Turn to light, Sirena, turn, it’s not fishology
Light low and clear, in shades of blue
Reading the leaves, rudimentary shards of things past
Pieces of cybotron, chanting the ochua in Istanbul
You have no right of return, but nameless remaining
Delusion fields grow like viral weeds around my abode
From delusion seeds and soil
His galactic zone, ocean of nuance in which I drown
There, in the hidden refuge beyond the reef
Luminous specter, of equal distance
Secret currents rushing past Aghora, in sentating spiral galaxies
Fossil and fern at the edge of the world awaits its harvest
When Doeken shines his morning light, in warning, of warming
His subtle change and words of endless skies
During a red twilight with the old ones,
Under a hualtuco sky,
Traveling far and near with crystals, humming arsia echoes, in the presence of something, scaling the eyes through walls
The ghost of aeon remains, in transformation and modulation
Aberration of light, and moonlight curves, phrasing the air
Il dolce…stile nuovo
Always wanting to live at star’s end,
In monochrome existence
Without Alchiva or the siren of the Andenes
Just us, in the journey of the wayfarers
On permafrost over Gelendor Field
In a flying dream, tiptoeing as the simorgh sleeps on velvet tongues
A distant gaze, then silence as we continued
Toward angel tech, a slight calm before the storm
In great constancy in wonder, this journey around a stone
To altitude and architecture
He awoke with a premonition of circular clouds
During the feather cycle, such malleable mutability
Interlinks crossing an ever-changing horizon
Walking over thunderground, to find the people of blue dimension,
Before high noon, when Meridia closes
The radiation generation, azure azure
And we felt the fever pulse, crossing the same river once
My personal nature taking flight
Into high canon, sinking in haze polder
Caressing a frostling merge, in a broken town
He, trapped in a cloud of unknowing until late dawn
Located the serpent’s lair, covered in Spanish moss
A spatial prophecy indeed, as we entered
This moss cathedral, of pagan sanctity
Dissolving the seeds of a moment
Enduring the heights of the depths, ignoring this ambient otaku’s time in absence
The Kirghiz light shone in the distance,
As the fire of time’s spiral burned on
Reminds me of that roast at Beirut, so long ago
Offering in waves they were, beyond the reef again
In collective soulwaves, in the heart of distant horizons
We felt their synergistic perceptions
At once we left, onward to Valles Marineris
Along slight wisps of the white cloud radio
A low of vibration in the dream body,
A creepy isolation trip, where mighty voids collide
At the vernal crossing in silent night
Homage to fallen gods, between inner landscapes
Even there we witnessed a circular ceremony
Of spore and bark, conducting a cave ritual
One night on bald mountain
Both ends fixed, in furioso, this was a point of no return
No time to partake in angel’s grief through the infinite halls
Elemental fields surrounded Notting Hill, the new refuge
Of dissolution, of what is called truth
In green evil, finding resolution point
In the same deep water we discovered the triangle of dawn
At a later phase you view rain as a metaphor, a presence
You see Mondseele’s face in the fire
No endless stream in this dream
Into light we go, from the vortex ring
To the other side of…what?
Entering the dismembering strain
To subtle shifts of forgotten remembering
Interposed with suffering past
Finding the truth at last someday
Just to wait and let the storm pass by
Letting others about their lives
Ignoring all besides, to focus the mind
Oh, why now are you everywhere
And so beautiful?
The question beckons, and cannot be answered
In times of low density
Clearing this reverie along the way, chastisement
So quick to repay, and life shall confront me someday later
The devil syndrome always with me, with us
Reaching, in days later, the point of safety
The spiritual bonding, first at the 35th parallel
Early dawn it was, observing
Each one his own, his goals, their dreams and pursuits
In this liberty city, zone of wonder and comfort
Thus began the call to prayer, deep basso chants in hopes of someone hearing
Voices piercing the wire light hills bleached white
Like in the Arab lands…one day
In the distance we both felt it, the call, the answer
The new calling
Like rust on the blade, so unattuned he was, we were
Entering the lair of Zyklop at last
Anticipation and fear in the dank languid air
Resonance of apprehension incurable by soma
The lifting charm kept lifting as we traversed this valley of Kaamos, hunting and gathering for truth
Guided only by indigo light on the night of passage we kept going
The bright tones lit that beautiful space in between
The creatures were nesting on cliffsides
As I recalled: day seven in the seven-day galaxy
With weeks not established in celestial bodies but in a Creator
Stopping we heard the subharmonic invocation of the dark spirits
Partakers of big medicine for substantial ailments
Of the journey, in totality, I scarce recall
Reading now, of another, the journey to Ixtlan
Through the lost caverns of Caryatis
Lost somewhere in old Rangoon, forgotten
Taking mind over energy, in melodic communion at the threshold of beauty, another he found
Enter the outlands: in the realm of twilight
Into the magnificent void, without internal top
Kissing the rattling sabers on the way, going to the other side
In search of…a quiet friend
Kidnapped by fast creatures, this Isidis, across the undivided flow
In the year of the horse, prophetic, to commence this night journey
Dark matter melodies harmonize in mid-air
Sprinkling the holy dirt with grace
Memories of vast Omaneska so fresh in mind
The latent recollection
Never finished this one…Isidis was slain too quickly
In the forest of ancient light, weeping again
Almost touching the many loves lost over and over
Hues of alchemagenta, appreciated in isolation
This new rite of passage to take
Again, entering the outlands: the secret arrival
Into the palace of nectar, oh the bliss
And that is why he left for so long that one day
The palace, foundations in a demilitarized zone
Ruling humidity toward the troposphere
Subtle mosaics of land, sea, air, and aura
Moved beyond the oil field, and expansion moods
Caught in the square between three Zo pilots and a road somewhere
The wren and raven in this forest, humming in slow rising
Defying the omnipresent boundary
Echoing delight in their freedom
Rise and shine, this mist is upon us, the dragon has left
Under water to breathe, the hidden earth and the shadows dance in tune to this vibrant water
Through telepathy he told her, tu…siempre
A holy dance to celebrate an approaching storm
In a miasma of malarial delusions, he lost reality
And found with me within the mystic, in return
A lonely shelter, this lost sanctum
That day, the cloud landing were too still to see
From sub terrain, just a reflection was bought with contemplation
Open, this cosmic trigger, mind transference control
On the artificial seaside, a weaker compromise
He left again, for the monastery in the south
Drifting in blank space, in bioelectric plasma
Falling more slowly downwards, looking for trance spirits
Mere reflections in suspension in the night sky
Shifting green paste to cover at all, at times
The karmic light extinguished, insectodial regression, the transfer near complete
So near
And he still finds none, all dying
Crossing the bridge of existence to witness resonant gore
In raingardens without magnetic fields
These final journeys, this cloud hidden with whereabouts unknown in the eternal expanse
On wings of light to fly, into the sunspot cycle
Caked in sand from dust clouds on the horizon
The last pages
Fishing in a school of fish, rushing through the blue depths of sweat after days of rain
Such wicked dreams along the road to Wirikuta…
Singing in shaizan verse, the rolling curve of notes topping glacier ridges revisited
All the waters are gone from here
In the long dervish dreamtime, ignoring Altus’ cry
Hearing the night skies reply, cutting a ripple of sand
Such gleaming oracles to bestow
Yet total submergence, leaving it where it fell
Come infinite, shamanic influence so hardly felt, not at Molenstraat
The descending past I wade into, tales of a star maker charming
A partial site he found one day, spun from a midnight loom
In all such emptiness, submitting to Shariah’s wishes
To find the cave dwellers in hindunation
Such a long way home however
And a slow fall inward
The cave painting so telling indeed, of a gathering long ago
In time long past
Tears were shed on black ice, en route to Shamal Aquabah
Relinquishing Hayagriva, and heavy grief
The innerzone to cross and perish within
The early man, at once, drowning in the well of souls
On a starry night, I nearly feel your blood
I recall graves
Of two English soldiers of Concord Battleground
With no hymn to comfort, he mentioned it was lonely
Just like the wheel of earth, the spirit moves
According to the lord of the starfields
Shaping structures from silence
Wandering through a synthetic forest
Almost his last, almost
A path of lights to follow in the deep hours
Tantra mantra amid black dangers
A seascape so lush, flowing in aion
Spirals in infinite skies tell of the end capacious
Southbound, looking for safety and not finding
The distal sonority pierces the air as I read, more
Dressing the air, filling the plasma falls
These psychic revelations in the last days
Where is the fragrance of eternal roses?
Oak sprits surround the return of the temple
Coming from its journey through underworlds
Banked in a morphing cloud, amid lunae and daikan
To the threshold of silence I go now
Leaving this sonorous topography on a Thursday afternoon
Going somewhere else, and in this, revealing the secret
Just a piece of infinity
To fit into the dream circle
I had to leave again, when it was darkest, before dawn
When silence speaks in shadow
To the place where the black stars hang.
Jan, I know you shall never return, not from there
Such futile search of somnium
Of things always wanted and never found
All I remember was how it was the first day.

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Read poems about / on: lost, journey, memory, light, remember, dream, night, rain, water, lonely, river, sky, alone, silence, nature, swimming, truth, dance, future, fog

Poem Submitted: Saturday, October 30, 2004