There are few who swim against the currents of time, living certain majestic smolderings and alien strengths as if they have died to live forever. There are so few who are like the vortex of a midnight river and the slope of a cosmic edge, in whose singularity and declivity the age is gone. There are fewer who are like a solid, unnamed, stepping stone in the heavy currents of the age of false light and enlightenment; as a generic revolutionary praxis goes, they’d rather be so black and coarse — solidly ingrained and gravitating — than smooth and merely afloat. But fewer still are those who are the thunder for all ages and in all voids: they are not grounded and sheltered on earth — they terrify it –, nor do they hang and dwell in the sky — they split it –: that light, so very few can witness its pure blinding longitude and touch its sublime density, is the truest Sensation (Sight-Sense, Causation-Reason) for real humanity to be the exact thing at the exact time in the Universe: itself.  – by Daniel Luis Indranu

Summae Corneliana: Azure Night Eyes by Daniel Luis Indranu


Falling upon my immense heart-front,
Where azure night eyes are meant to secretly incarnate,
You arrive, fully happening to man.

You too are the language and glory of the winged voyager;
You often have to bear it perpetually, like solitary frontiers,
You, a most present part of me.

It is in you that the sun sees itself at night,
Your existence beckons a reef of light over the plenum of autumn.

You throb and continue to go down, like silent prayers,
With the secret tears of sincere presence,
Alone and without equal, just as you have been there a few times,
With me across past-time veils of space.

You, embalming summer cascades and surreptitious winter wings,
What else is akin to certain fondling assaults and spontaneous gratitude?

Day in night,
Reveling in untold curves of morning in the rhythm of measureless joy,
You emerge from valleys of deeply seasoned cedars,
In my full knowledge of living poetry.

In the enclosing tenderness that bears my soul,
You come bare and heavily innocent as the honey and elixirs of Reason,
With all the open courtesy that you are, here at life’s hidden door.

On these white shores of seething touches,
I depart from mere rest and caress Beauty’s Cornelian hip,
And I am born in the honey of China-blue August,
With a heart populated with your presence.

You are indeed as violet and delicate as grapes,
Reared by western ridges, known by eastern rivers,
And sounded by quivering autumns.

More than being fateful, you are the velvet peak of evenings and
The depth of serene arid lands.

Nothing draws near you but the shore-beholding sea in me:

Of your subterranean splendor and sight,
Of your emerald feelings and silky, artful hands,

Of your wild sketches, as if spilled upon an oceanic canvas,
In Beauty’s name, you belong to my vault of fate.

Your amber existence moves the currents of my wakeful sleep,
And all frontiers are alive in my heart like the hills before sunset,
Like everything else invisible in the Orient and mist.

Without a mirror, only a strange pair of pierced nocturnal eyes,
The trails of your innocence run slicing through my heart,
Climbing longing’s branches high and pure enough:

In the solitude I enter,
You are my spring Andean.

In the name I call among silent knowings,
You suddenly bear all tender names upon high, ripe branches.

In the presence of the rain-silken night,
You, my nocturnal passerine, awaken as spilling art.

We are everywhere in the Universe, palpitating and perfuming,
And Reason quells itself for no other knowing,

Other than the moonlight and sonnets falling to signal the hills of understanding we know:

Are we not among those who take the fire of both hemispheres and conceal it in their own eyes,
And then, knowing each other, surge in greater solitude?


He who sighs breathing oceans and paints silhouettes,
And echoes stories from grasslands never told,
May I be his ransoming roots;

May no man dare call himself a lover next to this heart,
Without bearing the name of depth carved in sand, water, and wind,
That name risen in trembling fire.

A fateful bird takes himself to a lonely high branch,
Through every divining gateway and severe weather,
To die with unknown Alpine songs, distinguished without a funeral.

From sandbars and reefs of heavy dreams,
I have indeed seen wakeful pains of crossed paths
Flow into the sea of no explanation, with a lament,

“Does the world ever remember loving man?”
But I also remember migrating strengths bursting into Crimean flowers and cherries,
The walking spring of rasping loveliness in your eyes,
Passing through solitary cracks in the manifold of honey.

So I still catch shy morning eyes at dawn,
Where, of a flower carried by a solemn stream,
I daringly ask, with the entire cosmos,
Of your presence for love, known in a thousand gestures and shy alleys,

And you steal the pain of a half-orphaned child
And, gleaming in the evening rain,
Adorn autumnal petals with beautitude’s full courage.

Of the northeastern skies enthroned upon my snowy soul,
You so wakefully drink unto the longest silent wet limits of the earth,
Underneath every love’s shivering past.

Upon this windowpane of paroxysmal traces,
I am once more a silken fruit of the old sun,
Summoning the rush of sighs from all cordilleras,
Knowing you as you.


You, morning-rain topaz and heart of andante evenings,
Like midsummer brooks wedded among themselves,
What an eye-catch you are in landscapes and scenes gently arriving:

My silences paint you immensely unto deliverance,
My chaste dreams soothingly appear in your sculpture of understanding.

In your presence, Nature recalls and sees herself,
For you are her hands fully open, capable of any shape and reflexivity.

The drowning enclave of your silken taste,
The shivering symmetries in your vision,
The alabaster purity of your gifts,
And the ecstasy of your primal touch,
You are the moving loveliness of oceans and heavens.

I have learned to write names and disembody spirits in sand,
And here you are, a life of full wine-scented ripeness.
You, the touch-stone of this silently known togetherness,
The artistic foliage of sensitivity,
You are the freest gift of creation in the wind:

Of the way morning birds migrate towards the North in spring,
Of the way you nicely veil yourself, in a horizon of silence,
Like a thousand springs reflected upon the faces of pure, ancient stones.


You, knower of the heart’s seasons,
Home of the miracles of sight,
Interpreter of the twice-human and all diurnal colors,

Long-beheld by a lone falcon in distant, placid skies,
The Aegean night is unveiled by the stillest of hours in your lap.

Of your own strength and taste,
You are indeed every wide ocean’s coral blossoms.

I shall keep pressing your contour against my all-heart skin
That your secrets and loveliness might ensue from the pores of these moments:

Like this, utterly yielding: for Memory, Moment, Mystery, Mastery,
With the wet plumage of fatal Reason interposing,
At home, soaring all the way,
Painting sight.


Ever-willing to self-consume like the new air of dawn
And to ransomingly fall on terrains like the light and rain we know,

You house the very knowledge of November pulsations,
The existence of the Unknown, alive in the dark,
In the solemnity of its pure, often anonymous essence.

In the trails of the seasons,
The origin of the rose still stands,
Bespeaking your existence, replenishing desires.

This secret garden kissed by azimuthal rain
Shall continue beyond the last moment,
For the transverse recognition of shared wings,
And for this quiet Universality of pure longitudes and moments.

We both know what travels that way and spills itself over the seven seas,
We know which grain has the blood and life of such nearness.

This restful side, at last, becomes a relentless spume of connection,
Everywhere in the Universe, with you.



“Painted Sight”

I’d like to write endlessly of this love,
Though it is not a common tale they’d devour,
Not a typical path they’d unfurl:

You don’t have to ask me questions,
I feel your every silent, intent step towards me,
I know that heart of yours without solace,
The long, sightless fate in your inward waiting.

No need to force your love on me,
No need to guess how it lives,
It self-quells within me too without doubt,
As vast as the November rain on your prayerful face.

Loving you is such a great courage, not just a want,
Being loved by you is real strength, not just power,
How else does one earth-caress the summit of understanding,
I wouldn’t want any less than this in love’s name.

I wouldn’t call love any other name save your name,
I wouldn’t know its immolation save in your heart,
I wouldn’t see its day save through your smile,
I wouldn’t reach its night save through your tears.

I am a human suddenness, I have those solitary palpitations too,
I do yearn to unveil your sight amidst warm kisses at night,
I wouldn’t turn my heart away, for this path pensively knows us too well,
Like the silent end of all summer days.

Oh the way they laugh at the sight of your beautiful wounds,
I only wish, after all, none of us would have to hurt this much,
I wish I could rewind it all to protect you from all instinctive pitfalls,
But I wish the most I could be stronger for you than this beheld fate:

Stronger than beginnings without a question, than ends without an answer.
So I bequeath my vision to you: all that I am, all that you are,
As I fall into another world, as you continue to awaken.

After 10 Years by David Robbins

My coffee was cold by now. I hadn’t taken a sip in close to twenty minutes or so. I didn’t care to wake up or get energized. There was no point in filling up on caffeine. With or without it, that bell was going to ring and hundreds of feet would soon come thundering down the halls and dispersing into their appropriate classroom. Cackling voices would sting my ears and choke out the peacefulness of my beloved solitude. The clock on the computer said it was 7:43am. I clicked the refresh button for the hundredth time. Finally, a new e-mail. Looking forward to some sort of human contact outside of this circus, I scrolled up only to find the sender was my boss, Principal Young:

Mr. Meyers,

As discussed in my office last Tuesday, I would like to remind you that I and Vice-Principal Masters will be keeping close watch on you. Please expect several visits from us throughout these last few weeks of this school year, as your recent behavior is both alarming and unsuitable for a supposed professional such as yourself.

Once more, if you choose to leave campus again before your contracted hours are completed, you will most definitely be terminated for job abandonment.

Thank you,

Principal Ann Young

I couldn’t delete the damn thing quickly enough. Everything inside of me burned to reply:

Dear Principal Young, Go fuck yourself maliciously.

Thank you,

Jeff Meyers (supposed professional)

p.s. Please expect several visits from myself during lunch break wherein I will most assuredly take a shit on your carpet.

As I got up from my desk to pace around the classroom and mumble further insults under my breath, someone knocked on the door. Mrs. Schultz, the third-grade teacher from next door, let herself in and sunk down into a student’s desk in the front row. The bags under her eyes were darker than usual. Several of her long, purple nails were missing, and the cream dress with faded sunflowers looked as if it had been living at the bottom dirty laundry basket for several weeks.

I sat back down in my chair and tried smiling at her but her eyes were locked on the floor.

“Sherri, what’s wrong?” I asked.

She looked up as if to insinuate that I already knew. I did.


She nodded. “He wants a divorce. I waited until two in the morning for him to get home and when he finally did, the only thing he said was that he wanted a divorce.” She stared at me for a long time, waiting for me to ask what she so desperately wanted to talk further about. I knew the routine. I was used to it by now. It wasn’t that I cared but it took my mind off of my own problems.

I obliged. “Did he mention her?” I finally asked.

“No, but I could smell her on him. The goddamn whore!” Tears began to well in her eyes. In her wrinkled forehead I saw the restraint she used to fight them off. This was the first time I had ever heard her curse the mystery mistress.

For a woman being dicked over by her husband, she was damned polite.

“I could smell her on him.” she repeated softly as her eyes fell to the floor again. “Not her perfume. Her sweat. After ten years of marriage, I know what Dennis’ body odor smells like. This wasn’t it. It was hers.” She paused. “They had been making love.”

Making love? I thought. I’d never heard another human being refer to their spouse’s affair as “making love”. Fucking, screwing, banging. These were the terms normal people used. My ex-wife told me herself she was “fucking someone else” when we split. It wasn’t romanticized in the least.

“I asked him why. He said he couldn’t be in a loveless marriage anymore. I told him that I still loved him. That’s beside the point, he said.”

“Sherri, I’m so sorry.”

She gazed at me for a moment, “Thank you, Jeff.” The tears returned, and just as quickly she steeled herself again.

“I know this doesn’t help, but I how you feel.”

“How long were you married?” she asked.

“Almost four years. We were together seven.”

Taking hold of her purse, she fixed her dress, stood up, and with what appeared to take all the strength in the world, smiled. “Have a great day, Mr. Meyers.” she said, closing the door behind her.

A few hours later, once I had sent my kids off to recess, I went down the hall and stood at her door. Through its aged window I saw her pacing up and down the rows, looking over the shoulders of her students to check their work. I noticed how attractive she was. Her short brown hair was still very dark, very natural. Her skin looked healthy. A child in the third row raised his hand for help. She quickly went to his desk and knelt beside him. After she’d answered his question, she stood up again. He must have said thank you because a smile beamed across her face as she mouthed a welcome. She wore her unyielding smile a few moments longer before she sat down in her chair up front, facing the class.

Looking on, she noticed me at the door and gave a small, courteous wave. Another student called for her and her eyes quickly darted in their direction, followed by another smile.

The bell rang and I walked back to my class and met my kids at the door, listening to them argue over who won the tetherball match.



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