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

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."