LoversImmersed in time
there’s more than meets the eye.
I cannot die
if I feel the true Being.
Delivered from my mind’s eye
a body of spirit I’m receiving.

Let parts of me be
just what I see:
the heart that cries behind
a sea wall of stormy disease,
a curable personality vault
that keeps release
being achieved.

Sorrow wishes to join with itself
and a land of love tries to hug an ocean,
of light in darkness to span.


Looking for gratification
I stumbled on an enigma.
The what? of why?
and the why? of what?

~ Gross practitioners
garble the language of life.


Trampoline wax wipe my slate clean.
The meaningless fish
have been jumping
and bungling up my size.

From homunculus to god
and wrecked in degree,
reckoning a deformity
in scatterbrained abstinence
enforced on the guilty:
I’m Me Myself I.

Trailing in turbulence
and settling on existence,
riding the horses of Slow Time
worrying the worms to the grave ~
I’m tapered into a hollow hole
that would fill and billow
to form a real soft soul
that comes redeeming everything
in fulfilment of the preferred cycle.

Next breath I take,
in between a heartbeat,
the shiny thoughts have begun
and I’m happy to be functioning again.
There’s space to decorate a room
exactly as it is in reality.
To accent the salient points.


Bizarre planet,
home to a race of humans
and things too wild to contemplate:
it tires me out to have dealings with them.
If I let them get on with it,
there I am, off again,
   dissolved in plumes.
But it’s all too much.

Now things are as they are again,
back in order, too
numerous to list, too
various to describe ~
too much to take in.
I’ll leave them be:
space is a large container,
time a patient vibrator.


Mysteries howl as wide as
   the universe,
and even as a star is born
a yawning face is hard to awaken.
The changing rhythm seeks to
flow upwards and onwards,
fully geared and piping
to drive the momentum
of its own propulsion.

Machine is a word
to mean machine.
A raindrop in the sand.
There are no words for
   the ultimate,
no adjectives for essence.
Yet a word can transmit
   ultimate essence.

– Free thought is looking backwards.
A paradox with parallax.

Between thought and regeneration
a crack may let in
the air of a foreign climate,
and the world of words we stumble in
be left behind.

Now drain the blind.

© 2003 Pete Gioconda & Black Cat Communications
All rights reserved