Reverence For The Endless Waves And Dawn

The pollen gathered,
the tempest

The nothings, contempt in knowing

The final stalks, sacred, form vast channels of parting midnight

The bay horizon at dawn, colored by blood, and fire, and neatly satin wakes;

The tourmaline avenues, with upright hosts, pantheons of all division accepted;

Care for the forgotten course, care for the sailor at the aged
masts of tempests chimes;

The road, the channel, to sea,
all to seas; to undone Roman pillars, to the Niles sifting sands;

To abberant nights, holy and fitted, like velvet crests upon the
faded rims of new-dawn;

To the days the flesh has made, and to the flesh the day has tempered;

For the currents, that of space and time eschew and value in unheard notes,

The chorus flows as the waters:
Of time,
of space, true dream between;

Kingdoms clashing in far forgotten soils, souls caught in currents of weighted life;

Anchored to the docks
Of metrical hearts,
And daily fettered bonds;

From all streams
and each their

all horizons, gathering lights, currents of the every-wind; each  fade,

and reach eternal rest
in soft basin seas,
at dawn.


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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One Response to Reverence For The Endless Waves And Dawn

  1. kshawnedgar says:

    A comfortable, rhythmical image laced with ease.

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