To the nines

The cordite smell
can not linger
where the scent
of blossoms overtake
the senses,
borne in the arms of
ten million dakinis.

The oldest ruin
can only be so shattered,
but even atomized
it existed
somewhere, somewhen,
in our shared eternity.
And every burned book
contains an unburnable
idea.

My muses are better than
your artless god,
and give more joy
than your jokeless farce.
The diamond mind,
crystal sharp,
cuts through the
dross of hateful cant.

The clear sight
of creativity turns
force into a rainbow
that paints the universe--

mark me,

I will illuminate you.

Asleep

When I pretended I was asleep
and rigid,
I felt something
and my heart sank
for what felt like hours.
And it was weird.

And I sat with myself,
not asleep,
for hours, wondering,
why and what, and what should
I even do.

And nothing came to mind.

I could do nothing, or say
nothing.

Because nothing good comes
of saying something,
and nothing is always right,
because in the beginning was
nothing,

and that was good.

And if I were good, nothing,
no, nothing happened.

And after all,
the best dreams come
when one is asleep.