The Windowsill

by November 17, 2008 0 comments

Time is tight, I stand completely still,
Mouth toward the moon.
I have vision;
Flower eyesight opens from my innermost
Where I rest my chin upon the windowsill
Van Gogh room that John Coltrane paints blue.

I stand there one with the moon,
The other with you between indigo and blue.
I tried to save time from itself, to make it stand still,
While I burned my candle on the windowsill.
I use candles for vision,
A dark flame arises from my innermost.

Nothing words of the weatherman, sky of blue,
Ancient predilection of my innermost,
Simple as the moon.
I close my eyes and seek vision,
And I sit still,
Still upon the windowsill.

I seek all answers from the innermost;
You see nothing but my windowsill
As painted and view the be world blue,
Endless distance through existence still,
House made beside the moon,
Central source of night visions.

Mad tablets of paper pills upon windowsills
With wobbly ancient scribbling visions,
Pen and pencil of the innermost,
Take me without you to the moon,
Street address undressed blue;
Many curtains conceal what’s behind the window still

Burning and returning to the volcano of all vision,
Which I find only when my mind stands still,
Still behind the windowsill
Beneath the room where I keep coltrane blue
Color of the infinity of my innermost
Hue of my evening against the moon.

Endless visions, leaving this world from my innermost
Light of the insane moon, sky of coltrane blue,
Sit beneath the windowsill, and let my mind be still.


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