Looking Up I See: The Beaches Of Normandy, Leo Tempests, And Many Petty Suns

 

 

The casket sundials

of the neon sky waves,

over the surgeon mass of untitled fogs;

 

who fix the bitter entries,

of a sun

of light,

 

contempt now

with

frost.

 

Dead space arisen from the

waters of the contemplative doubt of

the dials, and their lifted weight responds

 

at dusk in lathered seeing fronds;

in being-stars, and being bound–alive

by captive trails to which their bounds are sealed in:

 

the unheard skies;

the unheard skies, with sun-tied-fins;

the unheard skies with coils of wild-song.

 

Silver rivets length beyond the sky;

in frosted roots, the vines reach of siphoned space limits,

for twice the skies are bathed:

 

In light

All light

Is All.:

 

We can

ever

see.

 

Moon-tide assembly regents

Sun-star 

Earth.

 

This is the reflection of

scars from

moon steppes.

 

See them bounce off our untitled carbon entries;

over our harbors, hills, and heights,

and in the violet of our lingering skylines,

 

And outlined eastern shores;

bright fire over the tapestries of

a waning orient sky across them,

 

and western wakes;

true cascades of  mated hydrogen culled along the bled-horizon,

and wild smoke-slight tides.

 

I see men, and women, and cats,

and their all in love

 with themselves (their violently licking their fur-coats),

 

and the cryptic casket dials;

mapped and waiting

 for inertia from the electric seas of time;

 

and fractions

of all

the petty suns.

 

(Fractal-

-Electric

-Jams- Abound)

 

Bullets; sky-sand

Bullets over

Beachhead-landing suns.

 

Many

petty

suns fly (do bullets there too?);

 

ours is

so

small.

 

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About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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