Ventriloquist Tongues on Vines of Coincidental Syllogisms

a cathedral echoing with bat songs,

during the episode of eloquence as the Stained Glass erupted

with Parables of light,

the blue hills of the neighborhood crime scene 

reminding the world of the permanent paralysis,

a distorted comprehension of sound 

that  travels through the skin 

on waves of comprehension the way 

thought escapes the dandelions, and the Universe next door

seems to be draped in the eyelids of Salvador Dali,

every phantom of History appearing on the edge of the 

light,

the Russian Ballerino Nijinsky is scrawling the Lost Word 

that rhymes with Tunguska, the jonquils of tranquility 

reverberating with an admonition of twilight,

still points of mute comprehension, when the Siberian Peasants

heard the Sound of Nothingness

in decibels that astonished Madame Curie, as she slept in the 

tower above Einstein's shadow.

A world between worlds, where the echoes are not made of echoes

but composed of Swans trumpeting some arrival,

the endless wisdom of God superceded by the Foolishness of the Angels,

until the STory drifts in arpeggios of madness,

and the counterpoint of Twilight brings the forest to a 

quiescent austerity, the blueberries are rehearsing 

a memory that contains

the Stained Glass of the World between Worlds,

the Vines that race into the Starlight 

like Ventriloquist tongues.