Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Mark Fleury- Three Poems

Ready To Fly To The Beam of Sun Ship 

Ready to fly to the beam of Sun Ship.

Maybe it's because space is so common,
That it's hard to see forms are only

Its shadows. It's the same beam that if a poem
Leads to the edge of a mental cliff,
The next poem is a way to the other side.

Ready to fly to the beam of Sun Ship,
Revealed with each exhale;
Openness Light vibrations.

Light and Sound when added to breathing, heart
Beat of time, opening the Ship's fifth dimension.

Tears of joy because you're returning. 


Breath wants to touch the heart of the beat,
Rhythm, internal space, Heaven, Sun-pouring from the shore of 

Complete openness; Holy Ghosting, forming, vibrating
Against the human body. 5D beam of 

Breath within lamp, desk, chair, touched
By the heart of Heaven's beat;

Breath's vibration, ground for Muse
To open the fourth dimension: to take flight
From a ground floor window. Its opposite, speech,

Impresses the page with
The only place left to turn: Spirit,

Colliding with hearing to form
The syllable. And sentence's beam
Fills up the beat of breath,
The ground of self-sacrifice, the intestines
Of a sunset. The interchangeable heart. Diamond 
In a ring. 

Form is mathematical, a beat for Muse
To fill up. She'll offer it to you as she rises 

To this surface: breath, in and out, flutter 

Of her wings. The tendency to look back 
At her reflection in the window 
Before taking flight is Sun Ship ready to leave. 

My Furthest Outside 

My furthest outside 
Is the skin of a sunbeam. Not giving off 
Enough light to warm the moon.
The darkness

Around the angles 
Of a street lamp

Is the marrow

In my glass jaw. My smile is shining
From the dawn's horizon on the other side

Of a bus stop.
The silhouetted skyline is in between
The cold of dark 

And cold of light
In the icy blue skeleton driver
At the top of the steps.
I pay my fare with the skin

From the shedding sunrise. It falls
As a feather into his bony hands,
Cupped then clasped until the shaft 

Is snapped in half and the time I've spent
Waiting for the bus to take me home bleeds
From the broken quill. 

From the back of the bus I can see 
The building's window on the ground floor,
Where Muse is on the sill, looking 
Into her reflection one last time.

She says "The past is pain.
I can fit all of it in my spine,
Where all of my out-of-body experiences are.
Space Shore is in there, too, the Ship 
I'll fly to when I'm done looking
At myself. It's up there, east,
Over my shoulder.

The Sun Ship of space fits in 
My pain, where the quill is bleeding
And the bus is leaving. An open space
For the ink to bleed in, as the bus

Takes my pain west to its grave."

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