Elemental Undulations of Endless Endlessness

13 birds, on the wing above the asphalt oasis: phrygian logos, a whirlwind of denouement, cascading in afterthought and mirror image of the old woman's smile, growing in organic pageantry somewhere in the echo chambers of that moment, whereever it exists, in that madness of space/time, when the world is a dizzying clockwork of speech and eyes and action, history lost inside itself as if it isn't really happening, but in fact, it is happening, and never in any of the ways that it seems it should, until that last moment when the strange words appear flying off some random tongue or a ghost ship manifests in the autumn sky, an auburn pastiche of consciousness descending from the treetops in wing over wing, where the lake is a puzzle of emeralds and rubies waiting to be born, and the hawks are hovering on a maternal wind at just the moment the sun sets and the convergence becomes everything that everything else was not. These periodicities elope in pointillism, down self assembling neuronal modalities, breaking the universe into number lines in which there are nothing but zeros, an unfinished eye within an unfinished eye being erased and created at the same time, a vast network of emptiness, just the way the Bodhissatvas described while flying paper airplanes across the himalayas at the end of time. * The stratosphere, they print: in cuneiform crystals, contains wings and diagrams of wings that surrender their mouth to the unfinishing of time ions and ions that nurse entire civilizations out from within the strange heart of the soil, the human brain like an Easter egg containing magic that not even the ancient madmen could explain there, bathed in sulfur, inhaling the ghost of the sybil by the light of the Athenian shore Ludwig Wittgenstein is trapped in the Afterworld he has found is not the afterworld at all but an television commercial that is being broadcast in the middle of the night by a team of Mad Scientists who slip through the world on in flesh made of fractals and fire. Every word that races through Wittgensteins' memory becomes something else Fist becomes Fish becomes Fire becomes Fear and Freedom a Kingdom of Ink where the world is erased by the sudden sweep of the Intergalactic Tongue, ten thousand tongues fluttering across the skin, licking the dusk into bacchanalian frenzies, taste buds turning wise with the strange wine of nightmares, boiling laboratories of torrid delusion, the alchemical mechanization of Time, when the Abyss is a Sybil in Sibilant Systems, the letter S racing through the world in a series of Inestimable Synergies. One screams, when Wittgenstein Laughs: the door to the Universe is thrown open, a strange place full of women that weep when the windows are frozen with the tear stained whispers of Winter roses. *** There once was a trilobyte named Ford. On the ancient greek shores, it began designing forgotten numbers in the Sand. New designs. New meanings. this is the number that gave birth to a Dog. This one: taught Einstein to laugh. ANother, shaped like the room where Madame Curie discovered her pillow was full of strange salty diadems, is used to calculate the number of stars that have never been born. As the trilobyte engineers each of these fractalline sequences, the Ocean sand suddenly flickers, the way a television set does when thrown to into the dumpster by a Mime. And the world --- the world the world has not defined, somehow has no knowledge of where it is anymore, like that moment of sudden realization in any Given City when a door is just a door, but there are too many of them and the windows become symbolic, but not of windows, not of wombs, but like broken toys being disassembled in some hysterical system of disbelief and one hears a popping sound at the back of the brain and *** On the day the Ouija board was invented, there was a Greek witness stirring the coals of a strange fire that was made of dead men's bones. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, the light beams carved from Sappho's remains, a wild unfathomable sense of mystery as the smoke polished the lungs into a Spirit that knew nothing but contained phantomesque speech of the Sphinx, there on the sand, full of turquoise and roses. The ocean was a wild chrysathemum, a noise of something slurping itself into sleep, the way a boat is pulled into the daydream of Einstein and a Dragon suddenly appears, there where the beginning of time tastes like a root beer float, and nothing remains save the sad eyes of conquest, Columbus bright smile, a tattoo the natives cannot begin to explain --- on the edge of the ocean there is a moment when the first Ion of the Sea exchanges wedding vows with the last Ion of the Sky and the wind is a train tunnel of bicameral phantasms tracing empty alphabets agains the current optical modality of the Sea Lion's eye. *** An astral lattice, laced in lace of the Philosopher's face, the color of paper mache opening like a mask into some strange domain of Ideas and Ideas and the Freckles of Lost Children who wander the Attic waiting for their grandmother's trombone to ignite in Mephistophelean time signatures, the blue notes bursting into old tear stained letters, containing phrases of surrender and abandon, surrender and abandon, surrender and abandon like the Attic itself, an afterthought made of some architects' daydreams --- fueled by Pie the color of Old Curtains, those same curtains that not even the Ghost of Belle Star could refrain from wearing around her living room as a Cape, that day when the clouds were like naughty children. *** The polarity of Consciousness is suddenly reversed. white bends Seaward, where the blueprints are like Dragon eggs, every one of them burbling over in the Salt Fire and Godless wisdom of God, endless resurrections of Dolphins breaching the surface of Heaven and Hell at the Same time, the sundial shimmering on the Sea Lions tongue, the white foam of an Antelope's eye lost in the Sine and cosine of a memory that bursts from photon to photon, remembering the day Harry Houdini began talking to himself in the funhouse mirror, his tongue suddenly the color of aluminum foil, his cheekbones the Hot Sails of the argonauts, Pentecostal serpents writhing in his skin until the Tour Guide arrives and says None of this is really happening and the clouds and the Sky began inverting, a Chalice of Stars, a Starlit Palace of Caped Crusaders escaping the papery cage made of Bluebeard's birthday cake. There, where the howling began. Moments later, the Supercomputer seized control over the Ionosphere. The Polarity of the Trees became the Spectral signature of the Orangutang, weird hieroglyphics that explain nothing to anyone, not even the Sphinx. **** There is a Casino on Venus where the Messiahs go to wait their turn, leaping through the ammonia and sulfur on footsteps the Earthlings discover like secret codes in their Bibles, the letter A like a toeprint of some unborn being, the Letter B, a white winged seraph breaking out above the clouds churning with the perspiration of the Saints. In this Casino, the Winner takes the Daydream. At dusk: the calculations are made, and the Garden of Eden is planted again. The Gods arrive, like famous People. Socrates, Zeus, Ahura Mazda, the White Goddess, Kali Yuga, the lost children of every fairy tale, a series of Queens that have been permanently insulted by the color of the Skies on their Coronation day. It is these poetries that remind us, that the Casino is not a Casino at all. It is a Maternity Ward of Mystery, every dime slipping into some uncreated creation, like the way a Trilobyte Self Assembled one day when nobody, not even the Philosophers were paying attention, and the Universe spun like sugar on the crest of a wave. That is the way the Alphabet began. The Letter Z, a wounded Unicorn. The eyelids of Poseidon swimming over the waterfall, paper boats disguised as the letter J. Then, they all knew, the world was made of Beginnings. Words that had endless meaning, like a Seahorse fossil discovered on Mare Tranquilatum, Neil Armstrong said. *** Nocturnal Neologos Allegro, Dante, like the diamondesque eyelids of lipless Iguanas sunbathing in the Astrodome, on Christmas day when Nothing Happened and the White flag was raised over the Sundial, like a strange portrait of some Geothermal QUeen, the nightmare of Galahad discovered painting itself in the Undiscovered Temple, ten thousand feet below the Pentagon, on a moonlit night, that night, when she was walking through the darkness and the deer led her into the unfinished world step by step, her madness increasing with every raindrop that was not a raindrop at all, but a series of jewels falling from her pocket, just like they said would happen in that fairy tale the one where only the raven knew what the Fox was saying and Utopia was discovered, lurking in Russian ballerina's eye. *** The power of Suggestion, is a wet tongue balanced on the Salamander's heart pusling, the newspaper print is racing across the world declaring War upon War on the Celestial Orphan, Orphan after Orphan, bloodstained and weeping in the Temple, declaring War on the Sky, a birthday party for nobody. The Sky tells the amphitheatre it is only joking, the lightning nods off at noon. A strange chorus of crickets arrives like Matadors in the library, a summer full of homeless people lost during the Red Queen's coronation, every eye a salt shaker, a chalice made of stars that cannot teach anyone how to speak the new language which is not a new language at all, but rather the pulsing of Soldiers who go insane while buried and sleeping inside the Ovaries of the Unfinished God which are discotheques that let nobody but those Seraphim in, until the Last Song is playing and the Universe dissolves into mere superstition. *** The power of suggestion: a styrofoam cup falling from the sky, with the word beyond the word racing towards the edge of the Universe in the Madman's eye, where all parallel lines converge and the Kaleidoscope is a particle Zoo full of Greek Philosophers, resurrected by the Vapors themselves, up from the dream on the breath of dandelions and the Altocumulus, where even the mathematics of God have not discovered themselves, but wait, on the edge of the Sky like a hurricane of memories travelling through Galileo Galileo's eyelid. * It is then, when the Universe creates a Canary, a wild whisper of wings that lift out of the Soil, wonder. The birth of a Pinecone as witnessed by the constellation Andromeda through the prism of an Unfinished Poem, where nobody and nothing exist as they actually are, but rather circumscribe the world in weird tangents, the language of Thieves, the chatter of Gypsies on the sidewalk, a discotheque of existentialist alienation. *** As the television exhales a sitcom of disincarnate parallelograms the living room ignites in a jungle of broken thoughts. Strands of wisdom. Light beams the color Mysterious Joy, dissolving on the skin like Sugar dissolves on the Surface of the Sun, a landscape of ethereal weirdness controlled by the Omnipop Void, like dreamers trapped in a Strangers skull, where the hypnosis is as powerful as the thought of broken glass, or a mermaid bathing her eyes in the Hurricane at the Beginning of Time. * There is a sundial inside the flesh, trapezoids fluttering in semi-rabid colors, Angels leaping like doglike beings through a circus where nobody goes, the Funhouse of Infinite Fantasias controlled by mockingbirds made by someone other than Mockingbirds as if the Universe was a wheel spinning in every direction at once going nowhere simultaneously, until the Eye Burst open and the Sky became the Ocean. *** Their faces were designed by Cactus, mouths like boiling balloons, opening and closing in the bright sun to the rhythm of the sunlight as it crashes on the water, where a Dryad is turning the Sky inside out as if to prove nothing except that the Unfinished World actually exists. There are no other explanations except how the blueness turns yellow, for a moment, a hawks eye empty of language the sky careening through a network of feathers until the world arrives at the moment there is no sky at all, just the strange heresies of light becoming a refuge of Infinite Infinities, where babies that have never been born, and who know nothing about the way the Bougainvillea chant random numbers as they sprout from the dead mans head that season in the wild grass, after the War --- the One that Never Began *** where She stood, the light was made of blue flesh --- an arm, in twilight --- racing towards some moment of sudden awareness --- the papery stillness of her hair, pursed into the wind --- a flag of memories. The slowness of heaven whirring. A white glance. Supernatural wisdom of a Leaf. Supraconsciousness of a Kite rising on the exhalations of all humanity, childlike into an empty cauldron where the stars glow like potatoes. And nobody knows anything. There is a capillary, blue green, in the Arm that trembles like a piece of yarn, wildly suggesting some magical coat glowing in the meadow of sunlit Snowmen racing into the Earth, laughing off key until the flowers explode in perfect uncertainty of Gods solitude *** gathering plums off the table, a twilight of skin crushed by the silent waves lapping at the Castles built by God in the heart made of Sand. The dusk juggles moons into orange eyed felines, turns the trees into the face of a Hag, nightmares trumping daydreams as the green grass drifts into it's whispering syllogisms law after law converting in the Church of Disbelief, that moment when Something slips Out of THE EYE and the Stars acknowledge your First Thought, a wink that bursts from ten thousand light years away, a freckle falling onto the hospital floor, for just a moment, the Womb of Heaven opens up into Strange Emptiness at the Beginning of Time. and every baby that has ever been born suddenly hears it's name being sung by something asleep in the wild embers of the Unfinished Sky, like a Magician, a harlequin, whose language has been earned by listening to the footsteps of Clouds, the love poems of Ceiling Fans, the soliloquys of workers trapped in some dark room where the Banquet of Minotaurs and Medusas has begun, and the world is like an Unfinished Map of Some Mysterious Mystery that does not wish to End. *** Confetti fills the Beggars eye that vacation in the Anarchist's Village, when the suburbanites drove bumper cars into the ocean, singing the love songs of Frankenstein while the world burst into a Video Game and nobody noticed anything except the way they wiggled their asses in the Center of the Pentagon where the dead Gods gathered in suspense, waiting to be saved by the Transcendental Smile of a Messiah whose work was never done, but kept reappearing in strange places and the sudden inexplicable wisdom, gypsy queens balanced on rooftops, dogs eyes boiling like monkey poems, Traces of Lace Curtains slithering through the edge of the road where the Queen of Woodstock is still standing, waiting for Someone to finish the song that she cannot stop hearing in the nuclei of her brain, like wow, they said as they hitchhiked into the Forest, a caravanserai of Cartoons, shiny quarters seeming like the fingernails of Pterodactyls, useless until the night turned Green and the Silver reminded them they had places they should be, like at home, where the Movies had actors and nobody ever had to do their own stunts and everyone got paid millions of dollars and wound up explaining it all to Oprah by the Light of the Sturgeon Moon. *** A wish fulfilling cup, empty as the skin of the Subterranean Goddess waiting like a human ear for the music to arrive, a tongue that stirs it's wishes of the lost world, on the balance of the night where the edge of the cup and the sky are conversing in the language of neutrons, protons, philosophers whose flesh and speech is designed by the beginning and the end of time as if they were separated by anything more than a single wink, trillions of miles seperated by the randomnicity of intergalactic space, the word of the words a series of thoughts evolving like dolphin crashing onto some windswept tongue, sugary elements that reveal the syllogisms of God: one coconut tumbling onto a moonlit beach, ten witnesses to the watery death of Jonah, some tide, a curtain of unfinished wind, racing against the flesh into that same tea cup, the wishes explode into an abandoned city full of nameless people that race through the streets wondering if they are racing through the streets or if the stars are racing against the curvature of their skin, where the angels have gathered, disguised as series of freckles. * The silences grow, in the stone trapezium, the teacup rattles like a bone in the hand of a ghost, the ghosts eyes suddenly opening to reveal your own face, tilted up towards the sun that burns in a trillion hallucinations, a trillion hallucinations of the Incomprehensible thought, the Thought that was never discovered but left it's place, sleeping amongst the unfinished paragraphs, tea leaves crushed by the fingerprints of some ordinary, imperceivable Buddha *** in the temple of the unfinished world, a trillion madmen are describing themselves to the Stars, their eyes shocked by the strangeness of the curve of space and time into a sudden disbelief that any of this is actually happening, like tickling the face of God to see what happens, until the doorbell rings and a faceless stranger answers, revealing the sneer of some Convenience Store Fakir in the cold light of the dawn, where the forest is multiplying it's cellular nuclei, as if to whisper none of that, none of that, none of that ever happened, whoosh. And the admonition of the Satyrs, in that temple is to burst against the Sky, and land upon the jagged cerebellum full of ancestors whose faces have not escaped the basement of that Void, where the Creator is weeping in Blakean Silence, the last Londoner dancing on the roof until no song remains *** A neon anemone, the dandelion of antedeluvian endlessness, the white fire of Socrates heart pulsing in a furnace as Plato Laughs, really you shouldn't have. The starlight arrives on the wings of a dolphin, lightning snatches a whisker off the bottom of the discotheque floor, and Greek Islands disappear in a Yawn. * They are curled like cats inside the Spanish moss, waiting to tell the tales of the Mausoleum Before Birth, a strange carriage that arrived as if driven by some desert prophet straight into the Maternity Ward where the nurses were singing an unforgotten song. * Every purple weirdness has lifted it's face into this world of solitary confinement, the eyes becoming multiples of themselves, integers racing across the flesh of man until the equation leaps out of the book and slips into a church made of Shark Bones and Wire, and Plato returns with a Kite to teach Aristotle the meaninglessness of Summer, how Autumn transcends the polarities the moment a leaf begins to ballerina into the ground, a white sail on the verge of Infinity *** in the bowl of greens, there is a Garden Salad Green Man, bearing face of Uncurable Superstitions, the wounded Knight, a face charged by Infinite Regress, guarding a Doorway that Leads to the Stairwell that Leads to the Doorway that leads to the Stairwell of the Doorway that brings you to exactly where you have always been and until that moment, the Universe waits: pinecones quivering like the arrows of God's silence, quoting broken music, the vegetation does not harmonize, but remains like Mozart hypnotized by the Lark balancing starlight above a pond in Salzburg, his Mother's face a mystery of music within music, a carouselambra of dreams that sings in silver wings, the poems of the Lost World dangling in it's beak, that Green & Dizzy god lost in the gambol of ambiguity, there in the parade of verdant admonitions, the Vertigo of every eye in the Forest boiling up in cold fusion supernovas as Heaven and Earth exchange the stories of how they became what they think they became and how in becoming they will be what they were not until suddenly, no more, like a question mark exploding in the Night Sky the treetops burst into a yellow flame that cannot be explained, that does not remain, but floats in a mystery above the silence like the face of God in a bowl of Soup *** Three silent sentences, brooding in Temples of Heliotropic Dusk, the smell of fajitas, curled smoke in the darkness of the philosopher's shadow, a cat above the treetops, the weird world balanced on stilts, an american night charged with footsteps racing across the iron heart of the earth, a dance of Ions, the Memory of God contained in a Broken mirror, laughter spiraling through the center of the sky into some unknown location where a Scarab is listening for the sound of the Ocean white noise balanced in the Surf, a listening station full of Supernatural Spies, Starlight gathering it's peaches on the curve of the antedeluvian ear, like a word falling into the dirt, containing meanings unknown to all save the Living, a place where the Skyscrapers rise in wild lightning of the Architects brain, synapses converging in disincarnate rhythms of the synchronized pulses of a City that Has Not Yet Existed. * A purple golden, the weather vane whirls around on the edge of the roof, every eyelid for 1000 miles, perceiving the great whispering of the grass, wings lifting into the echo sphere the way a smile opens at the edge of a curtain * A green theatre. There, where the river turns the stones into Human Hearts, the Human Heart into a network of enchantment, the enchantment into the real, the real into something that does not know itself, until the ocean arrives like a cloud on the tip of a tongue, pursuant to the beginning of time, a strange color that only the Tigers can see. *** an Incarnation of Vishnu, spinning like cotton candy on the edge of the lake where the fish sing strange songlike bubbles that burst open the sky, making the sound that destroys infinity in the blink of an eye, until the moment: a ray of light descends into the reeds revealing a symbol of God's suffering, a crucifix, perhaps or a frog's eye, the strange eyelids of stone opening to reveal a world full of elf built kaleidoscopes, colors that refer to the time before time, when the sand was churned into glass by the solar plexus of some alien sun, and the strangers drifted from scene to scene remembering things that had not happened, perhaps never would, like Yesterday. * A smithy of carouselambras, the Blacksmiths eye a cyclopean flame buring out into the starlight, wisps of vision trembling in blue and golden flame at the edge of the anvil, where a vagabond has built a heart made of cast iron sinews, bridges that go nowhere, vacuous convergences of white light and iron, the elemental Spirit that collides with nothing until the sky breaks open, howling the unfinished thoughts of the last wild Eden **** Light is alive, sleeping in the casket as if it was the toeshoe of some graveyard ballerina, en pointe and whisked by the laughter of grasshoppers into some strange cerebellum bathed in the fluorescent light reflected off a blade of grass as wise as Lao Tzu in a sandstorm. The visitation of the ourobouros is when the oscillation converge, a point by point harmonic of the humming belly in the center of this Earth, every cavern an esophagus, a subway of arteries, opening into some thundering caw of the unborn phoenix, whose beak is the color of King Midas tongue, trapped between atoms while licking the sunflowers at the edge of the Empyrean Dawn, until the moment Van Gogh's lost love appears, carrying a thundercloud of Ears, ten thousand moments before the next moment begins, like the flaming sword that falls into the starlight and can never be retrieved, until the beginning of time, which resembles the edge of an ocean wave dancing into the sky, a mermaids wing risen in the wet paint of sunburnt feathers when, Quetzlcoatl drifted in the sunlight, unknown. *** Puppets where their faces had been, rolling across the lineoleum designed by chemists trapped in Siberian Discotheques, out there where the number line burst out of Teslas eyes, raced towards Tunguska in a wheelbarrow steered by Baba Yaga herself, a travelling hut that made no sense when it detonated like Baba Yaga's smile above the Russian darkness, revealing secrets that would one day coil through Rasputin's brain, opening into the syntax of desert prophets Ezekiel's wheels spinning in ten directions simultaneously, a gyroscope that was engineered in the daydreams of Limbo. *** The burning ember of the disembodied God, left in the styrofoam sand dunes derived from the formula of the Magician that Had Not heard of the Equal Sign, suddenly stirred, the moment a dolphin glanced through the crest of the wave, witnessing the reeds tricking the stars into falling and not stopping, there where the clocks were collecting dust at the boundary zone between zones of galactic entropy, the place where gravity inverts and the angels are traced in the eyelashes of MC Escher, whiskers whispering stairwells abundant through the nocturne that began the moment Beethoven died, on the edge of the fireplace, thinking of sounds that the solitary confinement of his brain could not contain, but bled, a white rose rising in the purple sunlight until the moment the Castle spiralled above the City, disappearing into the Starlight unnamed and unknown, forgotten by man *** The symbolic war began like an episode of Jerry Springer, the curse words flowing into jigsaw puzzles of human suffering, a wild eyed gypsy's tattoo launched into the ether by the tesla coil of some television that knew not how to stay silent but turned suddenly holy, like a priests mouth at the end of time, surprised by it's own disbelief in the words cresting on it's whiskey scented tongue * Night after night, Edgar Allen Poe would arrive on a cat's whisker, dressed in a cloak made of newsprint, just as John Lennon described. Stupid Bloody Tuesday. Poe, balancing the eyelashes of Semolina Pilchard in his fingerprints, lifted open the open window, like a cat, riding backwards through a crime scene composed by some Greek Philosopher, the one who gave Socrates the recipe for Hemlock. * There was an oracle, in the sliver of the Venusian Moon, a strange sapphic angel charting a course for the Andromedan light, bathed in the silvery photons reflected by the moondust of mare tranquilatum, a secret recipe that nostradamus described in an unwritten quatrain, the same way that the streets of Florence illuminated underneath Dante Aligheri's footsteps. * A heartbroken Ouija Board, leapt from the snow, revealing an avalanche of misplaced vowels, every one Unique, just like the parrots of the Amazonian River Basin described... a series of wishing wells, shaped like the center of the snowflakes, each one containing a magic lantern, began to illuminate against the natural color of the sky, like the ghost of Michelangelo dancing in the chalk above the mirror image of the sky *** The symbolic war began like an episode of Jerry Springer, the curse words flowing into jigsaw puzzles of human suffering, a wild eyed gypsy's tattoo launched into the ether by the tesla coil of some television that knew not how to stay silent but turned suddenly holy, like a priests mouth at the end of time, surprised by it's own disbelief in the words cresting on it's whiskey scented tongue * Night after night, Edgar Allen Poe would arrive on a cat's whisker, dressed in a cloak made of newsprint, just as John Lennon described. Stupid Bloody Tuesday. Poe, balancing the eyelashes of Semolina Pilchard in his fingerprints, lifted open the open window, like a cat, riding backwards through a crime scene composed by some Greek Philosopher, the one who gave Socrates the recipe for Hemlock. * There was an oracle, in the sliver of the Venusian Moon, a strange sapphic angel charting a course for the Andromedan light, bathed in the silvery photons reflected by the moondust of mare tranquilatum, a secret recipe that nostradamus described in an unwritten quatrain, the same way that the streets of Florence illuminated underneath Dante Aligheri's footsteps. * A heartbroken Ouija Board, leapt from the snow, revealing an avalanche of misplaced vowels, every one Unique, just like the parrots of the Amazonian River Basin described... a series of wishing wells, shaped like the center of the snowflakes, each one containing a magic lantern, began to illuminate against the natural color of the sky, like the ghost of Michelangelo dancing in the chalk above the mirror image of the sky *** As they constructed a tear from the nuclear furnace of her skin, single photon rainbows ignited in a parade of astonishment, ribbons of the lost ourobouros racing into the subspace between the chasm and her schizoid flame, a dalliance of breathe beneath breath, lungs pulsing against the roof of Time, where SPace has collapsed into an ellipse, wandering the Library disguised as a series of vagabond freckles, each stranger turning cartwheels through the card catalogue, typos spontaneously erupting on the tip of the Librarian's tongue, until some distant undiscovered poet slips through a revolving door into the chambered nautilus on page 323 of some unfinished book that nobody's ever read, anyway, but sits gathering momentum during commercials at the Apocalypse, when everyone begins shooting each other to prove they really care. *** a flame sprawled over the city like the scent of Nostradamus drifting through the Carnival of Lilies there, where Paris has just begun to chew the soil into cemeteries of famous men, the white foam of angels cresting in the bones of Pere LeChaise, a wicked revolution full of Morrison and Rimbaud, those whose visitations knew no name, but leapt and kept searching through the fields of that anonymous pain, a world draped in spider silk and broken buildings, the best wishes of liars lifting into the air at the end of a strange visit full of words that nobody understood, only the strange blossoming of bougainvillea underneath the parasol empty and devoid of any name, a whirling subset of disincarnate phantoms, who will not remember anything, but drift through the fields bathed and generating silence *** a flame sprawled over the city like the scent of Nostradamus drifting through the Carnival of Lilies there, where Paris has just begun to chew the soil into cemeteries of famous men, the white foam of angels cresting in the bones of Pere LeChaise, a wicked revolution full of Morrison and Rimbaud, those whose visitations knew no name, but leapt and kept searching through the fields of that anonymous pain, a world draped in spider silk and broken buildings, the best wishes of liars lifting into the air at the end of a strange visit full of words that nobody understood, only the strange blossoming of bougainvillea underneath the parasol empty and devoid of any name, a whirling subset of disincarnate phantoms, who will not remember anything, but drift through the fields bathed and generating silence *** On the day the bumblebees disappeared leaving the world in shades of Stainless Steel, one by one, saluting the flowers that were swallowing the emptiness of the Sky, a strange chant lifted through the forest, reminding the prisoners the chocolate rainbow was nesting in the bark of the tree at the center of the story, where the symmetry was greatest and the King and Queen could not find the entrance to the Kingdom, to the Castle, but remained smiling strangely in the temple of rainbows wrought by perpetual darkness. This created, on page 23 of the Book that rested on the Bottom of the Forest Floor, a cross pollination between the language of the Greeks and the Silence of the Moderns, in the same tone as the chanting of the Whipoorwill who had fallen asleep while studying the prayers of the Spider that bathed in Infinite Light *** Imaginary Mantras of an illuminated albatross spanned in first sunlight above the nursery rhyme soul of an uneaten clam, laced in white curtains and an ocean of salt that churns up ten trillion non random numbers out of the Sleepy Face of God whose love is risen on a summery crest of the soft tide spiraling in the knotted flags of unicorn tongues waving in turquoise over the beach, bathing the birth of Heavenly beings in the essential perfume of the Seahorse that gallops into the Octopus Moon, a ship full of punch faced Pirates spinning their sinews into nets of mad madness edged by fingertips of anemone and cathedrals of Coral, those strange perfumes sifting ghostlike galleons from the sand dunes whose ten thousand shades of photons and light reveal the last thoughts of the dying Columbus when the footsteps of seabirds balancing unborn beings on the edge of the Sea of Undreamt Dharma while a Sailor, perched in the last thoughts of Christlike Noah, there in the sand, washed in wet whispers with Sandpiper wings tinged in mystic ignition of bioluminescent enchantments the baby talk of Heaven, a dolphin smile rising in the spiral ire of the swollen open waves, the Land Beyond Human Comprehension, the Mouth of God spilling an Alien Sonnet written by some Sleeping Being in the absolute Silence of that which has never been Born *** Circuits of interdimensional sinew, a series of illuminated algorithms, the strange thoughts of some primordial being lurking in the Skin of a Newborn just as they described while dwelling in the Labyrinth of Crete, there, one night a Cave full of Philosophers Plato, Socrates whirling around in the red phosphor, a strange series of synchronicities running from the beginning of Time into the Oracle's Tastebuds, foaming with the Mysterious Language of the World before Birth, the World without Circumfrence, without Center, the World outside Time, on the other side of Birth, on the other Side of Death, buried deep in the mitochondria like a treasure chest full of incomprehensibly Starlike Walrus Eyes. *** Hieronymous Bosch, his daydream, a new cartoon painted on the surface of a mirror falling towards the ground . As it shatters, Hieronymous Laughter is heard on the other side of a Doorway deep in some indeterminate Amsterdam, where the ghost of einstein is pretending to be asleep in a room that is as bright as the first moment after birth. * A name appears in the tree leaves. It is written by the Sparrows who have collected dust from the Ground, the effluvial pinecones whose logic is traced in the number line of unfinished beginnings, a strange spiral, like a fingerprint inverting in the movements of an acrobat at the opposite side of Time, where the world is a juxtaposition of memory and idea, imagination and madness, the convergences that make no sense ever, only the pretense, the sudden sensation of the familiar, a light bulb turning on in the middle of sleep, to wake in a still darkened room, eyes like candelabras of doubt. *** her face, a black guitar, played wildly by the lunatic virtuoso of the Shade, the Sunlight itself a music of the spheres, a photon per blue note, the magician of the pythagorean night, a black hole spinning inside the porous membranes of a green leaf on it's way into the forest floor, where the birds have created a Non Euclidean Sonnet, like shakespeare's face written in the geometry of an Unknown Woman's cellular nuclei, his Mother smiling through a veil as Ophelia falls off the stage and earns another Violet, and the audience breaks into the laughter that cannot be contained by the theatre door. It is then when they discover a mausoleum rising from the ground, corpse by corpse, a garden of memories exiting Stage Left, pursued by Priests, nurtured by the molecular structure of tears, falling back into the cheekbones as if to remind the sky it too, is a Mirror of Uncertainty. *** Striding into the palace of the Insane, a golden thought ripples from the sunset into the window, across the fingertips of the Ivy, the chlorophyll singing some unknown name, backwards through time, the way Light often does, Alice in Wonderland on her way to some furious congregation that can only speak Calculus, the Nightmare of Lewis Carroll, a number line writhing from inside a weather beaten grave, where the Palace is made of nothing but Stone and Soil and the Last thoughts of God, as a child sways in the crib, remembering nothing, remembering nothing, just a broken gallop, something racing it's way into the Sky like Pablo Picasso entering one of his own paintings, dust motes gathering in the eyes of a Bull. *** In the salvation of the real, there is a moment when the Universe stops. Just like they told us, back in the Garden, when the Graveyard was growing it's ghosts, scented like the lilies, a white tambourine racing towards the edge of the Night draped in fingerprints, sounding like the voice of the moon, exploding off key until the sturgeons in the Night began to swim towards the horixon, and the Fisherman whisked the lantern through the charcoal scented cloud, just as they taught the Jesuits, in the year that Nobody could remember. * I stride inside the Palace of Red Fire, remembering the boots my Grandmother wore, as she jitterbugged against the wind, her teeth glanced above a glass table, the plates empty, but something still remaining, a husk of potato skin and the indelible curve of crumbed cake, sugary as the moon that fell through the Fishermans Eye. * An urchin in the clouds. The light house signals the Seahorse to gallop across the pine trees, every whisk of it's tail championing the Non Euclidean Curve, Minkowski Space like a Childs Eye the moment before Conception, somewhere in the place where there are no questions or answers, just an echoing echo *** In the Unbuilt Cathedral, growling dandelions can hear the footsteps of a superluminal being as it slips from eye to eye in whirlwinds of color, transparent delusions that race from the mouth of the spider into the treetops on ecstatic perfumes that smell like the breath of God, a nightmare cologne, a poisonous toxicity to the stone brooding on the edge of the river like the face of Methuselah 969 years old, waiting to discover a snowflake in some new garden a place that has never heard of snow but suddenly is cloaked in the celestial ordination of rain that falls in the rhythm of 3 degrees celsius, whatever that means to the clouds, there gathering their angels on th edge of the sky, where the starlight is cloaked in Ions. And on the edge of that river, the babbling brook reminds the birds there is something that happens far away, some strange roaring, a eardrum washed in the tongue of bioluminescence, a splashing something, the Mozart moon calling the seabirds into fugues of blue notes, churning like the belly of Buddha on his way through the bonfire that strange day on the Washington Shore, when the rocks wore faces that could not be described. *** the history of life is unwritten, a strange unwoven tapestry turning over in the night like a pillow underneath a newborn baby's head, there, in the land of the Tabula Rasa and the unending promise of the unremembered future, like a world where every footstep is a punctuation mark in a book that nobody has ever read, but is filled with pages that turn like the generations of life on the edge of the world between worlds where the eye and the atom and the atom and the eye and the ocean and the eye and the cloud and the ocean and the raindrop that sleeps in the ocean rises into the sky in convections of unfinished symphonies where the hurricanes sing like Canaries *** on the shore of the lightless island, a fool's gold waits where the water is silent, a strange pause in the tide like the memory that cannot be retrieved while the moon is admonishing the stars to remain in their place, a strange conductivity between the ocean floor and the edge of the known universe, like the eyes of Tesla scanning the Russian sky, and seeing what is not there, but should be, there where the forest is filled with strange creatures assembling berries and sticks that glow in the dark and Baba Yaga herself has struck the notes of a chord in the forest reminding the honeybees their wings are not made of honey, but something other than that which can be discovered in the Cookbook, where the language of the light has been disassembled and reassembled in a rhythm that makes sense to the Bears that are dancing in the Siberian Sky, the lost world becoming itself moment by moment as Pythagoras slips from his boat and lands on the Sea of Caspian *** rubies whispered into lip light lily of a curl, the white beams dropping gold scented atoms around the heart of an unfinished story, the moment the grasshopper discovered crumbs of plutonium around a lightbeam resting between the blueness the redness the green fields full of blush darkened farmers, whose eyelids contain phantoms of ambiguity the same way the curtains of the theatre must open to reveal a Shakespearean Sonnet escaping from the mouth of a small town Ophelia, her eyes in the theatre full of mysterious question marks, as if the Universe was remembering some unfinished eloquence *** the asylum, where they dress the lunatics in white flowers, strange glowing chemicals like the birthday cake of Pterodactyls, they race like undiscovered angels into the light of the television set, screaming Japanese Haiku, chanting the language of undiscovered country, while the windowsills collect the wings of dragonflies, the pulses of the Doctor churning in the Office in a strange sequence of transcendental numbers Galileo composed one morning in the strange light of Florence, when the nightingale revealed the Sound. * Under the moss by the stone, in the place where there is only sunlight and fish that chirp as they rise into the sky on the beak of the unlit angel, rising, the Fish assemble theories of the Trees, the Trees assemble theories of the Bird the Bird, the River, the River derives it's ghosts from the edge of the ocean unfurling itself like a flag of incomprehensible beauty, the anemone themselves curtains that open into the beginning of Time. *** In the sky, there: She said there is the mirror image of an open window, like a Castle full of Strangers who do not know anything not even that they are strangers, or that they are nested in the sky like parallelograms above a starlit heart full of words like transcendental leukocytes that move against gravity into places full of the last thoughts of Beings on their Way to Be Born, there --- in the place, She said, of the Uncreated creator, an argyle tapestry of berries black berries, blue berries, strawberries, pursed like the laughter of the Racoon in some shaded grove made of nothingness, an open throat of the Bird like Being *** There is a machine made entirely of crucifixes out there, on the edge of the world, where the light is exchanging recipes with the darkness, a strange world of imaginary beings that are not imaginary at all, until the Doctor arrives from the other side of the Waiting Room Door and questions trip from eye to eye as if anyone knew anything at all, as if the world was made of machines or bones or Kingdoms of Green Beings whose energies are like Conquistadors, whose hair is like the Venusian Prayer Shawl, whose entrances and exits are composed of subtle genuflections that remain trapped in the eye of a Jesuit. *** The holy strangeness, like a typographical error in 10 dimensions, exited through the greenhouse the same way a the ballerino Nijinsky fell off the stage and landed in the darkness the same shape as the Beard of Rasputin, every eye in the theatre like a fist waiting to open and reveal what the Fortune Teller said when the Gypsy arrived in the Red Square, disguised as Madame Curie an electron fog laced in the green curl of her breath, as the clocks leapt forward one single solitary moment the day the Universe exhaled *** In the sunlight, where the world ends there is a path made of recombining miracles where every eye races like Godot into the hydrogen center of the Sun, where a strange flame burns like an Ocean of Ballerinas dancing into electrons like Jaguar Masked hyenas balanced in the florid repose of memory exiting the exit wound of imaginary beings the transcendental pirouette spontaneously erupting in the ligaments of psychotic vagabonds, ten thousand miles away who sense the earthquake inside their empty skin chanting lost verbs, as if ordained by WHO? When She enters the sunlight, where the photons sweep in the sand revealing fractal Zoos of Sandpipers talking backwards to Crustaceans, Fish that crest in the Chant of the pointlike binding of the waves, skeletons of God curled in white ribbons of the tide, where the prayer shawl of the Sunlight has thrown down a newborn Moon *** a holy fire: the syllables of the unborn rain like the ghost of Nostradamus, in the fields of Ardennes, poppy smoke that reminds the children there are places they will never go, memories that cannot be discovered, lurking in the soil like a woman's face that tunnels into your flesh in some bar, on the edge of the night when the lamplight bursts into saxophones of golden insanity, a ferris wheel of faces whirling around the room * the door opens, a white world slips into the street at the edge of the curb where the names are lost, a blur of broken tongues everyone trying to lick the cheekbones of strangers disappearing as if it was the apocalypse and the star of God had descended a stairwell down the street and knew something else was happening on the other side of Her Face that began in some faraway world, perhaps on the edge of another curb where there were twelve languages burning inside the skin and through the window everyone heard a crash and laughter, and disappeared again, a broken mirror that could only be discovered at morning when the sun rises. *** hades, an opalescent endlessness, the mother of pearl bathing in the eye of a turquoise eye in the death scene of a unicorn, when miracles escape through the curtains that open in the center of the sky, the fist of some unfinished being reaching down whirlwinds a lost face spinning against the edge of your own face bringing the temple into a dizzying chorus of broken hearts breaking in rhythms that have no rhythm but sound like the way people might dance on hot coals, if the world was a never ending funeral of wild beings bathing themselves in the fog of the dark sun which is everywhere and nowhere at all, a strange carousel of magic: the tarot cards, the Empress, the Cup, the Wand that Traces the Path into the Stars, a silent world rising out of the ground person by person: the grapefruit scented baby the dream that begins in the eyes of a Lunatic Priest, the word tripping across the flowery fingers of a pianist opening the mind into a night of new beginnings, where the world moves on footsteps of shapeshifting pathways that always lead back to the beginning *** in the sky, there is a mountain that reaches down with empty fingers, the Mountain climbers falling from the Sun into the Ordinary World, onto some empty street in the middle of the night when only the Wolverines are watching and the tall grass is explaining the Bible to a pear that has fallen from a tree and is rushing with the new ideas that one day will burst inside the brain of some theory mad madman who has eaten the Last Supper with Christ a thousand times, rehearsing every crucifixion in the dark when the mountain is moving around us and the exotic color of the sky has no end, but the constant permutations of the Mind of a Virgin, her face a prayer shawl that has risen from the dust of that Hotel, the one where the Astronauts were gambling for the explanation of the Rose. *** inside of the axiom there is the seed of a vine that grows in point wave point wave point wave oscillations of a book that is being written by Tolstoy from deep inside the grave and that will one day grow like strange flowers shooting out from the mouth of Orphans on their way into the Churchyard, when the anarchy is as intense as the first moment of birth and the words of those beings were still undefined, every eye was a UFO every Sidewalk a Zoo of Indescribable Creatures, discotheques where the Snow Leopard has eyes that spin like poisoned red Dice against the motion of the sky, until down the street there is a painting that has spilled out of it's frames the paint rippling into veins of womanly weirdness, a purple river of veins that began when? The sky, tripping on blue windowsills gathering the wings of flies as if they were Halloween Candy as if they were made in a Fly Factory, as if they were waiting to be eating by Broom Hilda as she slipped across the windowsill dressed in the leaves of an Ivy, chanting in pixellated embers of the Golden Green nightmare that bathes in the print of the newspaper as if it had never been written *** there is a silent audience gathered in the sky disguised as Neutrons Oxygen, the Angelic honeycomb that floods the lungs with bees whose names once flew off of King Solomon's tongue when his laughter was churning in his belly like butter, and the Sun opened it's throat and sang, the color of Tigers, the Manifesto of the Bougainvillea, the African Savannah trembling like the eyelids of the Leviathan, one by one Polka Dotted Gazelles and Golden Striped Lions Triangle thirsty Birds lapping the tears of crocodiles from the watering hole where the Flamingos began, suddenly in the reeds, startled by the sleeping eyes of the angels of creation, as they slipped around the reeds discovering new cruciforms, a thousand melodies of the Book of Genesis, when Mankind still walked with God and in the stories all the animals knew the names of the Humans and still felt like speaking, unconstructed codices of languages buried in the fleshy feathers that swing through the sky in acrobatic whirlwinds until at one precise moment every creature on the Savannah is suddenly perfectly asleep, as if by accident. *** The cherubim bubbled in blue moods, baby peas popping in a poupourri of potted soil, every prayer : a crime scene nursery rhyme sung into the Atoms of God, combination locks of psychotic human biology, miracles arriving in the blue palace of opiate flurries where space and time knock on the Mirror as if it was a door, and the Moment of Birth and the Instant of Death become incongruent and cannot decide how to live between the Wounds while still smiling and how to tell the birds of the world they are not really human until they have lived in the darkness of the Magistrate that knows no Math but only sits in the silence and the Furtive unfurling Flagships of An Archaeon of Heaven, in the bedroom aquarium where glass eyes of God is a discotheque of whiskers reflecting the mountaintop prayer shawl as it was discovered by the Cat of Lost Nobility * And as if, at that precise moment, when the Cherubim whisper: a dish breaks. A new dish. Nobody cares. The light of the lost world, where the dish has landed, is like the Moon beyond the Moon, a piece of cake on a Dragon's Tongue Or the camoflage of Otherworldly Others who arrive from the Other Side bathed in Lithium, telling tales of how the Oracle looked deep in their eyes and numbered the unfinished poems in the sequence of polygons that danced in the backs of their heads, as the light of the television melted in the smile of white feathered Zeus, Promethean ravens flickering against the skin as the actors on the other side of the screen suddenly disappear on Chariot of Fire, and the room becomes a jeweled box of ears that explode in slow motion too slow to hear, to anything save the silence itself and deep in that night the remote control is turning the universe off whispering curses in the middle of the night, Olympian stars turning over in the bowels of sleep as the fishlike beings painted by the Brain of the Forgotten Child stand motionless in the aquarium, thrashing in silence, with Gods brewing hurricanes inside the haunt of their Unknowable Eyes *** At the edge of the sunbeam: the tongue of the Sun licks a whirlpool woman into curving her Ear into Song Singing Songs, in whose notes, the Dog God wanders across Galapagos Island. Until her heart broke into puzzles of Darwinian remorse: the turtles were thinking as if they might like to go to sleep in the blue velveteen starlight a grand flight of the Archangels, the eyelids of the humpback whale bellowing into the breathlessness of finches that now speculate in chirps upon the birth of Mermaids in atomic salinity, her teardrops like a broom sweeping Darwin's fingernails into the heartless grove, where the Soap Opera gurgles a hymnal of Orchids beneath the wa wa wa waves every moment the Corpse of the Thunder Hunting Void slips on lost Cinderallas in changeling Shekinah where Fish scaled Seraphim, under Orpheus Sapphire divide Infinity by Zero, opening the smile of the Father of Go Going Golden Immaculate void, the Sunlight singing the Last Fears of the First Funeral, a shark bone circulating in the shattered eyes of the Orphan When, on the other side of that When, the Witch brews a shark into sharklike sobbing, the laughter of Predators quivering in playing cards down at the roots of the pyromaniac's fist a catalog of flamethrowing frown, thundering with straightjackets at the top of the Uncreated Ocean, the blue sky twists a prayer shawl into an the unfinished wound of the Immortal Messiah and scarlet petunias wraps themselves around the wound of the world, around, in the blue dizzying black tide of inhuman human whirlpools, hurrikanes bury coconuts in the nude voodoo cocoon, a guru of Eleusius whispering the Liplight of Sybils, glossolalia of Butterflies roaring a Manifesto until on the waterfront where they sell styrofoam cups to starving children, the Loveless Fisherman of the City begin to walk, over there, into the shelter where the light is unbalanced, and no memory of God remains and the bumblebees break into cold honey and the murder scene of a jigsaw puzzles at the edge of the world, near McDonalds and the Mother's Eye hovers, a newborn face etched in seashells catching unborn angels in ribbons of black light that have escaped the turtles eye and burning wild starlings of torrential gothic froth, shimmying winds of the bellybutton of Godiva, a fruit bowl opening into yawn of Tomorrow, endless anonymous beings burning blue veins into the twilight of the Tortoise Shell glowing like the lungs of Gilgamesh *** the star, a magic mouth exhaling Parrots through the mirror of the soil where Newton has rearranged the furniture into a series of parallelograms that have no thought other than the thought of why the parabolas curl in the shade where the cats trace paths into the night, turning grey at the first moment the sunlight slips it's tongue into the edge of the ocean to sizzle with the fish, in an articulation of convergences as above, so below, they wrote in the sand just before tripping into the Island full of Pirates with precambrian smiles. *** Antedeluvian Weirdos, running amok with Godzilla, there on the floor drunk in lichens, whirlwinds racing with the sound of some new shadow that lisps, there in the footprints of the Sphinx, if that's what you call it. * A wandering eye, distributed in the Ions has turned the Sky into the Casino of Thunder, out on the edge of the Glass, the mirror of the Sahara an oasis of silence a mesmer of archaeons, where the Bedouin Nomads are racing into the Light, their tapestries painted with wild threads of coincidence, waiting for Others to Discover on some newly discovered day when the Lemniscates whirl in undulating counterpoint, the riddles coded inside the Trees whose motion is slower than the first thoughts of God, and never arrive anywhere except where they are least expected, a surprise, like a monkey discovered in the treetops of some suburban generica. * It is in those unbalanced arpeggios of unfinished sentences, staccato phonemes launched at the beginning of time, like Max Planck and Einstein sailing into some world where nobody had heard of Newton or Columbus, and the light was the color of the sky in the year 1902. *** In the mirror of the mirror there is nothing to be seen at all, just the curve of something disappearing into what? A fiery fairy of light lit glass, the color of the turtle's eye where lines are frozen in the ten million colors of hallucinatory beings, turtle toes tap dancing on the rooftop, where no Ocean remains except the gurgling of the drainpipes as the pigeons query the daylight, blinking in rhythm to the oscillating furies of that Greek Theatre that is nowhere and everywhere at once, a wild fluttering of wings into the ocean the triple time smile of the moon, resting on the surface of the Lake where an Old Man is sleeping in a pile of beards leftover from the Fourth of July, a madness that the tarantulas cannot begin to explain, as they rush back to the edge of the river in search of new theories of the Dream Life of Dirt *** Ludwig Wittgenstein, the Deejay to the Mimes, has written a poem on the top of Semolina Pilchard's balding head, as she arrives at the top of the Eiffel tower disguised as herself, a memory escaping from the Secret Compartment in Descartes' kitchen, there in that hotel in Ulm, at the same place where the Photons assembled a paint by number something at the crib of Albert Einstein, like a Sail that could catch photons and lead them into some Undiscovered World, full of boomerangs and broken symmetry, the history of unborn beings that speak through their hair as they get stuck in a revolving door and still remember nothing, nothing, except the way the glass was once a pile of sand, perhaps a mountain in some Dragon's Eye, the buried treasure of a Nightmare that has not quite begun but hesitates on the edge of the Skull in weird penumbral syllogisms *** The polarity of consciousness is reversed. A white zebra, a black gazelle, the lion's eyes rotate inward, witnessing some strange world growing in the garden buried in the neural networks of it's most ancient grandparents, there, on the serengeti, where the world has erupted into a congregation of dream starved beings, culled by the curves of the neck of a rhinoceros racing towards the Castle hidden inside the Boabob trees, upside down, the flags moving in the rhythm of the Starlight, the perpetual motion of the Still point whose energies cannot be explained by the Doctors, by the wild eyed Shamans racing into the Upside Down Kingdom where everything happens the way they described in the center of the Stone, a series of thoughts that have their origin in the negative entropy of an Apple falling off the tree and landing in Sir Isaac Newton's stomach, as seen on Television, in the year that nobody could explain. *** As the Circuitry of the world develops like a sunburn on the skin of some ancient Shaman crawling through the city made of Tinfoil, the eyes of the Jaguar explode ten thousand emeralds deep in the furnace of unfinished sapphires, where the white swan is whirling to the rhythm of nothingness explaining itself, the Green Fuel of Tourists, a strange parade that makes no sense not even to the passengers whose smiles eclipse the dream of the monkey, trapping the whispers of the world in the canopy that twitches in the rhythm of the chiraco born on the edge of the Sea full of Ships that have sailed into the sunlight full of gold and crimson whirls, a sad memory howling in the bones of the Sailors as they slip over the Horizon in candelabras of astonishment *** In the Quark, there was a Giant of Infinite Dimensions, on the same page where the Universe was writing it's recipe for Curiousity, note by note, giggling the way Mozart laughed every evening when discovering the Secret Sounds enveloping the willow trees at dusk, when the rooftops were haunted by Astronauts and all the remote controls of the City were pointed towards the Face in the Bathroom Mirror, everyone trying to change something as the stars whirled around in the secret rhythm of the Unknown Saints, their footprints traced in meteors that spun towards some unfinished temple where the Greek Gods were hanging the Curtains of a Theatre of Abandoned Souls, Homer, Aeschylus, Ovid, Dante drifting shoeless towards the Subterranean path. *** The Dinosaur Bird, an archaeopteryx of the broken centuries has a secret nest in the Casinos of Aldebaraan, there where the universe has collapsed in a heap of pillowing sublunar vortices, revealing a duplicate Earth, like the pincushion of Ishtar, ten million angels sweeping their feet across the night sky upside down as the centuries run rampant with ghosts and other Philosophers made unreal by the descent of the Thunder into an eardrum ten thousand light years wide, placed where nobody could remember, in the Sea of Galilee, that day *** an Imaginary world, slowly : the molecules of Gold, painting themselves like the Fingernails of Hera, there on the Shores of the Here and Now, a million Oscillations of Insanity coalescing in a polka dot the color of Manhattan on Leap Year in the Year that Never Happens, but waits on the other side of the Waiting room door like a Doctor out hunting peaches in the Kuiper Belt, where they sing of Moons beyond moons, footsteps dressed in red, Jimi Hendrix gathering blue notes from a nest of Pterodactyls, the Kingdom of Owls, a question mark suspended in the television set at just the moment the lights go off and one is left to decide what to do next, now that the programming has changed keys and the Caduceus is glowing at the Edge of the Yard, a strange shadow that races from the inside of the eye to the edge of the known universe. *** As the Universe downloads itself in infinite regress, a series of blue eyes flickering inside a rhododendron, at the top of the sky where the ions are like flamethrowers in the hands of a Komodo Dragon, and the world has traced it's ancestry back to a series of randomly mutating punctuation marks drifting from atom to atom on the surface of the Precambrian Sea, where they have landed disguised as Parallelograms, parabolas, a hemiquaver that will echo in the laughter of the Newborn endlessly, just as they described in the cartoon that climbed out of the Cauldron that very strange moment in Liverpool, before Liverpool was named. Who Named it, they will one day begin to inquire, from the night sky as the constellations are gathering their Godlings, every single eye a point by point supernova, shards of Stained Glass in a Cathedral of Infinite Dimensions *** A librarian on it's way into the labyrinth has found the Dewey Decimal system was composed by Salieri, as he received transmissions from the Shew Stone sleeping underneath the Tree that had Never Been Built, there where the carpenter ants have lifted their wings into the night sky under the auspices of some antedeluvian probability field on its way through the Catacombs of Paris, a Greek God sleeping in the same channel as the Nightly News, until the atmosphere is the color of a hippopamus tongue and Nostradamus wanders through the night on the street of the Ancient Comedie, a magic scarab, the color of something that has never happened, containing the sign language of Willow Trees as they ignite in permutations of the *** as winter developed an artificial eye there, in the skyscrapers full of honeybee faced angels, calculators clicking semi random numbers (as if anything could be random in a universe where (anything at all was happening at all, it cannot be) and the Ghosts of Las Vegas began hunting through the couch cushions looking for the Remote Control that would get them a lifetime pass to the place on the Moon where Charlie Manson's Mother is serving Tea to Ulysses, neither of whom can remember how they got there, where the Stones taste like a Pie forged in a Coliseum on Saturn, just before the universe spun on it's axis counterpositioning itself in the dreams of Pablo Picasso, where the Bullseyes flower like the wounds of some bright desert mandala *** Across the rooftop, a cloud is trying to decide where to go. There was a lion underneath this cloud, where the apples fell, simple apostasies etching new mythologies into the warm soil of Western Washington when the children were balancing stones in the green grass by the house with an aquarium full of birds, until the doorbell rang and the cloud became a single drop of rain falling as described by Isaac Newton on Christmas Day, the day before he left Oxford bathed in a series of conversations with the Wanderer, whose name remains un-named * The Moon of Shangri La, an Ibis, carrying an envelope into the world of Unfinished Doorways, out there where the salt marsh is painted by alligators and oysters, the wild harmonium swinging in the sunburnt sun a vast echoic translation of something that just never happens but is sleeping in the reeds like the action potential of some Methuselean Brain, on the bottom of the floor in a world of inconstant whispers that cannot be contained in a book *** Inside the fog of the sun, a portrait of the queen is throwing tomatoes at a wild fox racing through the door of an abandoned country church, just at the moment the Congregation expected it would, some 80 years ago, as they were lip synching the words of the Hymnal, and the Priest began smiling in the same color as the pulpit, and the tall grass shivered to remember the world that was happening in the Universe next door. *** On the edge of that grasshoppers wing, there is a strange machine as gold as golden apples as gold as uranium as gold as hydrogen setting in the Unfinished Sun, where the Galleons are marching through Columbus' delusions, the Sybil of Genoa her face, painted by smoke the wild fantasies of stone throwing children and the last words of a magician who did not seem to be a magician at all, but a Baker with a basket of pinecones heading through the market towards the place of the Unbroken Heart *** In the theatre, at the moment of perfect silence the Ambassador of God began channeling TS ELiot, giving stage directions to the ghost in the Green Room, just as prophecied by the pawn shop Nostradamus who knew how to read the Book that Cannot Be Read the one where the Wild Starlings have traced an elliptical sway of wordless worlds, a hurricane of wings beating the face of God into unbalanced monstrosities glimpsed by the rare magician in the shadows of the Sistine Chapel, where Michelangelo once bathed in the Zero Gravity of an Unfinished Heaven * And in the Simplicity of that moment, when the Starling's eyes rippled into Paintbrushes, whirling diamond fevers across the face of a Snow Leopard, every one of the Actors assembled like magnets around a poem of inconstant angels that was growing it's way from the Serengeti to Stratford Upon Avon, where a strange girl was sleeping inside a coconut beside a forgotten lagoon. There, on Whitsuntide Tuesday, when the dream of the starlings inverted, a cascade of diabolic neurons erupted into the Song of the Lily, turning the greenhouse into a prison of Clocks pausing at the Zenith of Converging Memories, until that sudden Now, when Lao Tzu knocks on the Door in the Floor of the Chinese Forest the Door that Leads to the Nirvana that is not the Nirvana where the Buddha's skin still echos with the echolocations of Bats trembling like Mozart at the sound of the rain inside the ear of a Dragonfly *** White turquoise, the teeth of the sky exhaling the I Ching hexagram by hexagram in a sky above a whirlpool where the cars are circling in slow motion the event horizon of a normal day, every thunderbolt chasing the pulse of Brahma into the bright soil full of words that cannot be explained, but race from root to root, unburying the eggs delusion after delusion, as the eyes of the dragon assemble cell by cell in that strange zone where the light exits the eye in perfect symmetry cloaking itself in the face of a Stranger, a vast sacred unknowing that traces itself through the city, through the streets, across the skyscrapers full of self assembling exoskeletons, illuminated monsters that curve around the night sky just as the Witches promised, delivered from Babylon, delivered into the Night Sky of Subtropical Eden, across the canopic blossoms of the Interconnected Cerebellum, the circular net connected by nothingness save the first thoughts of God, slipping like a swarm of Bats into horizon of the Eye, whispering words that cannot be heard to an ear that has not finished listening *** In the theatre, at the moment of perfect silence the Ambassador of God began channeling TS ELiot, giving stage directions to the ghost in the Green Room, just as prophecied by the pawn shop Nostradamus who knew how to read the Book that Cannot Be Read the one where the Wild Starlings have traced an elliptical sway of wordless worlds, a hurricane of wings beating the face of God into unbalanced monstrosities glimpsed by the rare magician in the shadows of the Sistine Chapel, where Michelangelo once bathed in the Zero Gravity of an Unfinished Heaven * And in the Simplicity of that moment, when the Starling's eyes rippled into Paintbrushes, whirling diamond fevers across the face of a Snow Leopard, every one of the Actors assembled like magnets around a poem of inconstant angels that was growing it's way from the Serengeti to Stratford Upon Avon, where a strange girl was sleeping inside a coconut beside a forgotten lagoon. There, on Whitsuntide Tuesday, when the dream of the starlings inverted, a cascade of diabolic neurons erupted into the Song of the Lily, turning the greenhouse into a prison of Clocks pausing at the Zenith of Converging Memories, until that sudden Now, when Lao Tzu knocks on the Door in the Floor of the Chinese Forest the Door that Leads to the Nirvana that is not the Nirvana where the Buddha's skin still echos with the echolocations of Bats trembling like Mozart at the sound of the rain inside the ear of a Dragonfly *** At the end of June a thimble full of the Rain that Cannot Sleep began chasing the dream of a Walnut through the city streets laced with Paper Boats and Umbrellas that know only the artwork of those whose weeping cannot be explained by the cookbook that keeps chanting the first name of the Demi-Urge, thus unburying the consciousness of mysteriously mysterious unborn beings that shimmer in the randomnicity of rainbows only to appear, in the corner of the eye, suddenly --- weird Mothers of Pearl that burst like Shakespeare into the Theatre Door cloaked in the colors of the Constellations footprints of the Feathered Serpent drifting eye to eye down the centuries, disguised as a typographical error in a book that is written in a language that cannot be read by the Ordinary Eye *** There was a syllable of the Thought moving like a bioluminescent cloud across the tastebuds and anvils waiting for Socrates Tongue to ignite like Chinese fireworks in a Blackbirds Eye ten trillion calls and responses with some indescribable something lurking quietly in the Battlefields of Shangri La. The Universe murmured like Tolkien distilling cyclones of mystery from the ghosts that sleep in the wounded flesh of the Pear that Sings of the Tarantula, there where the desert becomes a Castle haunted by the freckles of James Dean. How they float into the starlight, like UFO's on their way into a Cathedral. And in the day that Socrates stood, his eyes scanning Athens across the temples, the gossips of the Parthenon chuckling Dogs, superstitions flooded the furnace with whirlwinds of Memory that would last until the Color Blue boiled Shinto - Tahitian prayers as Wine Dark Sea crashed into the purple hydrogen. Socrates, clutching his make believe crown, whispered a series of startling neologisms, watching the dolphins walk out of the Sea and slip like Greek Comedians into the Alleys of Athens where the world as quiet as Mother Theresa's breath and all the creatures speak One Undivided Language, a language of hydrogen, a language of nitrogen, a strange song bellowing in the eyelids of the Confucius, the Smithy of the Pleiades bathed in the flame of the Star that rises from the Soil, into the Night, unknown. *** MC Escher, who has eyelids like the fingerprint of Dostoyevsky one moment after bursting into Purple Ink begins dividing by Zero, that day by the Machine made out of the Daydreams of Voodoo Priestess. It was under such auspicious filtering of the blue light from the green light, the yellow light escaping the redness of her Mouth that Godlike beings disguised as styrofoam cups drifted around in perfect synchronicity into the still point of endless stupidity, the geometry of quasicrystals nurturing the tetragammatron in the haunted furls of the vast Tethys sea, where every anemone sings an unfinished song, teaching the coral reefs how to bark like the wolves of the sky just as they did in the day before they were ever imagined and some weird, Event --- ten trillion light years wide, like the mirror image of a mirror image opened it's skull into a thousand paradoxes that could not be paradoxes at all, but began to hypnotize the edge of spacetime into a single crystal ball that sways in the fingertips of a Pawn Shop gypsy, there, on the other side of the Forest, where not even the trees can escape, but grow, like the fingernails of Aphrodite, until nothing but aquamarine poesy remains and the hearts of the Chimpanzees slide into the distance, leaving a broken mirror to dance with Tesla in the Tunguskan Sun. *** an Umpire's heart is a trampoline of Stone clutching the Code of Hammurabi into pinball zig zags of Abracadabra in the Mood ring that whirls down dawn's doomed dunes, cloaked in the whispers of King Faced pigeons and jigsaw puzzles sprinkled into unfinished tears of the weeds, where the stoplights haunt the jut jawed river of Laughing Tigers roaring Argonauts through the turgid rudeness of Apparitions whose thirst that growls in the asphalt like some nest of Hungry Ghosts whose bones are fishing nets of electromagnetic Theatre, their fingers plucking apricots from the Daylight with a Single Unfinished Yawn racing from Lung to Lung in the Circus Birth of the Next All New, Never Seen Ever Anywhere Sky a paint by number rerun of Genesis, designed by some Desert prophets honeycombed hindbrain when the locusts were drifting on the Sumerian Wind, spinning Shadowy Urchins against the knock of the Sundial where the laughter of grapes broods in blooms of Uranium that dreams of God Hooved Horses racing into the Butterfly Cerebellum *** a Baby clown, bullseye of sadness made of rubbery nothings burst down the highway of Columbus purple tongue seeking the Convenience Store full of Made in China Americans when suddenly twelve partially hydrogenated Zombi Argonauts chasing their skin into the flesh of Jerry Springer's eyeless w****s shimmered in the cold light of polyurethane coconuts and ten thousand fluorescent birdlike reptiles trapped behind the counters painted in Zoroastrian graffiti that reminds the old man of the strange Thunders that boiled in the Soil of the war torn belly of ancient France, during the resurrection of Marat Sade when everything else made sense of senselessness and the Ghosts of the Apostles slipped like bedsheets around the gravestones of the Judge haunting the Past and Future with the Mysterious Unknowable delicacies, books that could never be published Labyrinths of Immaculate Indecision Horse drawn carriages escaping from their skin into streets that sing with pearls of bright red emptiness. *** The light bulbs do not remember your Mothers face, do they? Those priestly eyes, like torches burning in the darkness of a library where the books have leapt from the shelves like salmon hearted vagabonds seeking some new ocean to find their radioactive pillow, burning orphans trapped in a a phantomesque maternity ward on the edge of the Human Heart draped in blood fueled curtains and flags like the hair of Unborn Queens wild blue bougainvillea of the cemetery rainbow sipping the Laughter of Jesuit Priests, ear by ear who have raced around the city, cursing the pagan insanity of the ghostlike Coliseum where the Lion sleeps in the blue bath of the Sky at the moment of crystallized noon, buried in the consciousness of the Sphinx of the Zenith twelve pyramids turning into the curve of Astronomical Silence when all parallel lines converge and eye by eye, the crossword puzzles ignite with the sibilant iridescence of that autistic madwoman's unburied tongue, in Manhattan where the Ghosts ride sunbeams into Samsara *** Then, the Waiter pauses in a sudden silent whirl --- the moment of kinetic eloquence, there --- where the currents of the room : twelve wine glasses burst into Mozart's capillaries, vegetables growing from the spinning plate into the ligaments of a Green Man painted on the ceiling: a snatch of conversation about the Wedding that begins running backwards, and the Woman's Nightshade slips into beads of Vampirical Rain on the bottomless floor, breaking the heart of every Zeus like Being into a thousand jaguars whose smile is reflected just on the other side of the Universe, where the Laws of Supersymmetry demonstrate that God's lies have gone into fractals of impermanence and the Supernova of Shakespeare's wild eyed phantasm at the moment the Buddha of the Buddhas that are not Buddhas at all chose Salmon over Filet Mignon, and the color of the light changes tempo splashing down in aquamarine ambers and teleportations of Thought Geese into wild tapestries of golden maroon onomatopoeia, when the filaments of the light bulb are quivering with ten trillion penumbral monstrosities, tongue twisters that slip from eye to eye like a strange salad that has no beginning or end staring up from the plate into the vast madness of your Grandmother's cheekbones, the lines of her face spinning puppet strings around the preternatural void just as the treetops tremble into the Nirvana of a River that discos with the lost thoughts of Antelope eyed memories *** On the spine of the golden tree, something buried a polyhedron of solitude, stonelike, tripping with dragonfly eyes and other knickknacks of the Otherworld, and for many long years, life happened in slow motion, as if there was some universe swallowing another universe in the dark light of that angelic skin, just in carouselambras of dizzying blurs spinning around a dark flowery mouth thrumming with the hint of an unbearable smile burning, the eyes of a child collecting dust in the windowpane where nothing but light beams and stained glass angels know how to pass, through the blueness the Garden of Gethsemane, into the Oasis of Post Imaginary Beings who pass, Roman Soldiers lost in the Palace of Motion, balancing still points in Cycles of light and dark and the darkness that floods the sky with legends of bone thirsty soil *** A nomad, on the edge of the Human Dream steps through a revolving door into the street where the people cannot see anything at all, except the stories of ten million years of evolution writhing in the laugh lines bounding across the skin in a vineyard of freckles, circling the nose washing across the face in waves of transubstantiating perfume, the pheremones of peacocks rippling in the open pores every atom of the human body is a wishing well full of ten trillion silent frogs darkness at the bottom of the well, containing the hieroglyphics of the Wild Man who having escaped the Labyrinth of the Island of Greece, have wound up hypnotized, where the Ark of the Covenant is singing as a Bedouin angel listens through the sound of something sleeping in the silence where the roots of heaven have dissolved into capillaries that burn with the mysteries of Inverted Heavens, at the outermost edge of the uncreated wound. And on that Street, the Citizens have assembled in a congregation around a single blade of grass leaping across the Manhattan Skyline like the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe, tripping in shoes that were designed by a cobbler in Baltimore late one night when the stars were like nails falling through the sky in patterns of non random significance and Edgar Allen Poe was thinking of the Day he stood at the edge of the City dividing the Universe by Zero, his watch spinning backwards as the tops of the buildings curved into the belly of a dragon. and the blade of the grass disappeared like a tongue back into a philosopher's mouth.

Reviews

[.]

holy s**t - this is mammoth!

(maybe i'll find time to actually read it one day - when i next feel like wrestling a herd of elephants, perhaps)

[.]

holy s**t, this is mammoth!

(maybe i'll find the time to read it someday)

[Robin]

My favorite place in the Googolplex - the Library of Babel .