The fruit droops into the pool of silence.
Its sclereids disintegrate to archaic light:
a rainbow justly intoned, in Pythagorean tune,
where each separate hue perdures, apart,
in a moment of cohesion and negentropy.
Two suns are spooling, one below
a primitive of physics and toy theosophies
which reconstructs the music of the spheres,
soon consuming its core and cooling,
rescinding its seed, reducing itself to rind.
The water receives its reintegrated beams
in perfect absence—unsensed silence gleams.

Spores on the Solar Wind

Suspended in spacetime, though thrust
through interminable increate,
the primordial cells patternize
in emergent evolutions.

Spores on the solar wind.

The sunfruit has spliced its light
to slices of catalytics:
citric, Calvin, CNO
to disseminate the code of life.

Spores on the solar wind.

A spoor of lumens
reconstructs the flux of numen
that ionized the void sensorium
to minds that cleft auroral fire.

Spores on the solar wind.

Corona of the plasmaflower
culled in the crystals of the eye,
you are the ingenerate atoms that split
to particles beyond the final physics.

Spores on the solar wind.

Gloam of the Increate

A rose floats within the chaliced globe
(vivarium of viscid color) and blooms;
the clouds shed petals and their changed topology
interpolates an inchoate chaos,
releasing the Zeitgeist of fractional light.
Within our clockwork minds is fomenting
a planet forming, a science of Jurassic vitality.
Or void. Primordia and foam and the churn
of revolutions’ reveled potations.
A sky of cirro-circus and bacchanalia:
these be the civilities of the privileged hour.
Jove again, smarming over glutted gold-vermillion
and the million headlights and streetlamps
now silhouetted in their denouement.

Bēth (The Vessel)

O pomegranates and lilies disclosing
to Boaz and Jachin: I Ignalang am
the predicate of all you mean.
In the beginning was the primal point,
the primal homogeneity,
awaiting the logos, lex, and law
to break the cosmic symmetry.
Then at my Word, the light lashed exponentially:
Thus was God’s first thought
of something God was not.
His secret formulas and algebras
transduce to you in one of two:
my ontology binds the dual.
You know my oracles, my orations,
my forms that flicker like a flame,
now prophesize: Guess my name.

₺eveĺ̴͠l 0̵̀̕

In the pizzizzeria’s siz⭍le, bloom, and miraze,
the p xels peel off my face, wafftttiinngg in ⍵aves
of lucandescent plasplalasma. I ئense that I exxisstt,
but in b֎۞lean time, or. geographic psloo,
al. ways in the plaazzaa,, or al⍦ays in the pazoork,
releasing ꟻast-forwarded lirefava-flowers
or ascii pher෧mones: an e෯♭ryonic psychoid
ໄapsing beneath orrbbss and photophenule wings
and ꬣerchandise. Sooonn I. will ⳩lunder
all the €ash and twisaplight-pearlphires. But now
you lis⳧ like a newطorn loquloquistventri,
q elled in the inf۝-currents of a bluuee screen
of juvenlifescence, awash in ♪igital. hyperjewellss,,
the ꁅlitches gleammiing at your fingertiየs,
while I arrow right and ┪eft, here ߉n the gaaarrden
of parad⚵gms, an ☋nli⍫ed infinitud𐐩 of savepoiiints
like Ͼჩesh𐐸re ⟃he☾kers ꕥn a p⡇aאe of ꀸ↱୧㏟⑀.

Paul Verlaine: Moonlight (from French)

By Paul Verlaine

Your soul’s the landscape of a painter’s dream
Where charming masks and bergamasks arise
To play the lute and dance and nearly seem
Sad underneath a whimsical disguise.

Their lively songs all tell in minor key
Of conquering love, of living in delight.
They can’t believe how happy they must be…
Their melody melts in the calm moonlight,

In the calm, beautiful and sad moonlight
That lures the birds to dream among the trees
And makes the fountains sob into the night
Their marbled streams of long-drawn ecstasies.

Clair de Lune

Votre âme est un paysage choisi
Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques,
Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi
Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.

Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur
L’amour vainqueur et la vie opportune,
Ils n’ont pas l’air de croire à leur bonheur
Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,

Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,
Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres
Et sangloter d’extase les jets d’eau,
Les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres.