the green upon the grass is not gone,
nor does the cerulean mirror gaze
into this gated space where
all we know is known,
and the bristles of wheat beside the road
paint shadows upon the moon’s
blooming light,

just as we,
in darkness,
still can glow;

for the moon is but a naked sun: —
it is bare, resplendent — a skeleton in the sky,
and it undresses the earth
and all it is

to bond all it is
to what it always was:

a rustle in the thicket,
a drop of dew upon its thorn;

a song sung by crickets
with men who sigh in lands forlorn

the sky,the trees,the water,the hills,

and all within the darkness
waiting to be


soliloquy. (2009)

(Gazing upon a mirror)
A discrepant martyr contends in this mirror of sin and virtue—
His deathly gaze provokes such inanimate ecstasies . . .
and I bear witness to the quarrel—standing here, a barren arbiter . . .
But “What of it”?
of what purposes might direct a man to seek liberty through his own admissions?
of what liabilities might call for a man to fall on top the blade of bereavement?
of what disgust might denote the final dream that slays one’s breath to seek qualm?
and of what prides deplete the inner justices of one’s own developing purpose?
It might very well be the martyr that has brought halt to defending his creations
to make haste toward what knowledge might follow severed breath.
If martyrdom is a step up from halt, why not give it a deity?
I see no distinctness; I see no expected pity in its beauty, or its woe.
and when beauty and woe meld, art is constituted, it is declared operative.
This paradox between breath and sleep is what binds the understanding of life’s longings and death’s acceptances.
Why must one long for breath to ultimately affirm demise?
Why must the imagination administer beauty through unprecedented anguish?
Why must intellectualism be comprised of emotional decline?
Is it a paradox that allows life to move forward in its own misunderstandings of the truth?
for the martyr would die for the truth, even when the truth does not exist.
The martyr is labeled as just by the very adversary they resent and disdain!
The labels, proud and honorable, influence a mindless curtain call, which provides windows into quarter glories.
Did the martyr pass on for glory? or did the martyr pass on to seek monarchy o’er the dwindling administration of truth’s own negligence?
because there is never equal advantage in the discernment of truth,
for validity is just as scornful as the very tenets that bear the contrary.
Maybe truth is pursued in a lusting for vengeance and revolution–
but of revolution, but of vengeance, truth is never encountered . . .
‘Tis the bafflement of desolate discovery that calls for the man to convert calumny into case and quarrel into quarrel . . .
So with quarrel—discovery—I damn myself righteously!
Damn my virtue illegitimate! Damn this man in mirror a martyr for nothing, for with nothing I find truth!
Truth in the paradoxical mourns of gasp!
Fie! It calls for rasp! The rasp of mirth into anguish, anguish into soliloquy, and soliloquy into glory: a cowardice martyr!
(Breaks mirror)
And of rasping—for with rasp approaches dust, but “What of it”?
‘Tis paradoxical in the sense that I stand here, a melding of dust, bitter and dry, wafting with conceit,
bloodied by a broken mirror—a martyr of eye-—breathing.
Cowardice, am I.

Daniel Ray Thomason, 2009©


an angel with

trench coat wings
walked up
as if the street were a runway,
and the el inside
her eye was an ensō
drawn upon the washi of her
presence: still,
a current in an edison urn
allowing nirvana to slip
into the nude light
behind my eyes.

a morning
as i knew her,
another night

as she passed.

rimbaud dock.

life ripples in and out the window,
men whistle softly through their cigarette’s rim,
watching paranoia lift up the wall and
fold itself around their minds, like
ash trays for the soul, or hearts
eroded by the wind;

exhaling empires out of emptiness —
is that not a mind at work?
or is it what is built into the mirror
that etches our walls higher,
below the villa sky of highs, which
allows us to see that

a castle grows much too tired
in the still circle of time that grazes all we are?

i surrender these thoughts often — like ash
flicked fairly there to brush the wind –,
for my walls know better
than these airs condensed to make words
a prophecy in the eyes of their poison.