Wounded Moon

Between the notes of  the shattering moon

Tortuous clouds like         Michelangelo’s Slave Bound

Writhe in tumult,

Raining austere music of physics,         apparitional
  

The sound             between the notes

Exploding           from the blue throat

Of the night bird

An overwhelming force of music      unleashed

Sounding into the dark,       taking flight

A cipher indefinite from infinity

Careening into the rain breeze,

Into the volume of night,

Flying past all the branches of sapphire

And leaves          embossed with  the silver work

Of pounding moonlight. 

The crystal veil of existence falls in emptiness,
Pecked away by the archetypal nightingale.

The aethers roll up between the brows    

Into a sky of primordial tempest

Coming to a point,        the First Unity

Perceived in the flash of all manifestation abounding

In the immediate present:
The perceived forms of the eternal world

Constantly before our perception now in this world

Flurries of clouds

Surrounding the moon 

That have no home        in the infinite triggered moment

Roam,        wrapping  around the moon like bandages

The laceration reaching deep       
Into the bone of the sublunary world skinned alive,

A wound still fresh and bleeding-

A wound that will never heal         but forever

Suppurate                                          

And the bandages of clouds that aid the moon,

The decimated, starving and ruined who stare

Into her faceless mirror,

Who would unwrap the clouds to gaze into the raw truth,

Are in purgatory          and must remain blind and ruined

As the clouds change themselves moment by moment

Dripping with the plasma of space.

And poets who would embrace her,

Embrace the darkness of night

Poets who have held tight to the ardent white light

With their insane convulsions of poems

The moon gives suck to them,

A sightless madwoman screaming high from a tower,
Babe in arm.

Her every mad gesture and word

A tongue of silver fire that writes deep into bone,

Words which none will ever be able to read,

Of which there is no exegesis