Flock of Iridescent Doremifasolatidos

when the night burns a catalog of Gods

through the wheat, 

up into the whistling of the Scarecrows

and the strange faces 

exit the world into whirlwinds of transubstantiating 

parables,

eye locked on primitive candelabras glowing at the edge of the road,

where every stranger is racing 

into the Castle of Delusional Beings,

cascades of architecture that rise like Gaudi 

against silhouettes of the Catalonian field,

the eye opening into the eye that Is Not There,

but waits on the cresting of the Splendors in ribbons

that move in Unison, like the tongue of a Mime 

lost in the darkness at the edge of the Sea,

when the waves are incomprehensible emanations

of a Single SHHHHHHHHHHH 

that suggests there is more to the silence 

than meets the Ear,

and on the far side of the ocean

where the waves are like Greek Philosophers 

rising without any conception of the Color Blue,

the wine dark apparitions arrive

disguised as the Gifts of the Magi,

a purple phoenician whose sphinxlike serenity

contains books that escaped 

Alexandria, written in the Language

of the Reeds.

on the edge of the Tunguskan sky, there dreams 

of Nijinsky's heart, a schizoid angel balancing the scintillating chandelier, 

suspended in the clouds, the rainbow that arrives when 

it is not raining,

and the sky is blue like the Skull of Socrates

and the path arrives like a Violinists' eye,

opening against the night 

in doremifasolatidos of iridescence