OCCULT INSTRUCTION AFTER THE PLUNGE:
THE YEAR'S FIRST DREAM
--John Thomas

What you see, standing
so solid and erect, is the false ruin
that through painful dislocations
and vast omitted realities
has become real, belongs already
to the archaeologists.

Still, the "soul?" It is a mere
thinking, aching pulp, my weakest,
most malleable organ.
Yet it no longer collaborates
in the unity and endless monologue of matter.
Instead, corroded and undone,
deeply ruptured in favor of despair,
it has fallen through a mile-thick
layer of sulfur (that is, of fear).

A lateral being now, it lies
beneath the yellow vein,
next to what it will not touch:
the single shining switch
nestled at the base of things.

LAST CONFESSION
--Philomene

My life has been a terrified eye
Dedicated to ruin
Perhaps another winter
Will level me to dust
Put me in the mud

There will come a time
When my opinions will have vanished
Into thunder
Afterwards (Again!)
I'll plunge headlong into sleep
And dream that I am struck by lightning

I confess
I observed carelessly
And turned away too soon
I took my everyday excuses
From the common stock
My timidity was a
Weakness quickly seen and
Exploited by the world
As was my arrogance
Finally, I came to regret
Having bent the blades of grass
Beneath my feet

There were moments
When my mind scarcely
Belonged to me at all
Imprisoned
In the bizarre shapes of matter

Inward was the only direction
Not closed to me
A luminous point
To which the eye loves to return
To detach myself for hours
From my species

Still, I managed
To live and die
Deep over my head
In an ocean of light

Some of my poems
Are its silence uttered
Truth is utter silence