Anarchist Star Carnivals

A drunk; there it was. That night the frat house was crushed 

with howling stupor, bodies thick like a Picasso painting,

moon burnt eyes dripping with crimson saliva, going down the stairs

when the Silent Face burst into flames, 

at the precise moment the duel began, the Vegetable Goddess 

arrived, her surreal qualities shimmering when the record skipped

and for eternity, everyone in the room began to detect 

a sudden transitional point, a segue in a broken cartoon.  In thrugh

the window appeared what could only have been a Billionaires

daughter, her cheeks caked with icing and tearlight,

jewels of disbelief like a broken heart discovered in a playing 

card.  The frat house was full of strange rooms containing 

puzzle after puzzle. A network of cliques, each more presumptive 

and disconnected, that arrogance of the superficial knowing, the curve 

of a collar or the twist of a wig, a clove cigarette that makes

the Dead Man seem omniscient, at just the moment when the rain begins 

to fall, and the music coalesces into a series of human pulses.

*

Troglodyte Eff, the good natured doughboy has discovered America 

has disappeared through a Movie Screen in Ancient Mesopotamia,

where his dead Grandfather is circling like Don Quixoted on the surface

of Mars.  Algebra, the language of diodes, the nocturnal 

urgency of piss on the trampoline, when the Universe is constructed by 

sudden syllogisms of madness

a sound like laughter falling like breaking glass.

The Vegetable Queen has eyes made of Dimes, her heart bristling with the 

thunder of yesterdays' newsprint, a series of whirlwinds

that explained nothing until the moment the Professor's face 

began to invert, turning translucent in a blur of philosophical 

delusions, and the classroom seemed as ancient and unreal as a scene

from some Off Broadway madhouse.

Those notes, the blue notes -- gathering their furies, rising in tempests

of unbroken consciousness,

a churn of unborn beings, like the wilderness of the womb,

where there are men who will dream of time machines and hydrogen powered windmills,

centuries of curiosity evolving through the skin on it's way to the r0om

where the Lightbulbs have developed a Cyclops,

eye within eye the daydream of children whose skeletons have assembled

in the name of absolute anonymity, an Anarchists' Circus,

Dostoyevsky the disheveled drunk wandering through the scene scented 

like roses with the flaming strangeness of a disembodied dog

on it's way across the trampoline of the Night.