Azure Tranquility and the Apostles of Thunder in the Well)

an ancient mother of azure tranquility,

on the street where jonquils render the city into 

robot charades,

a thunderclap is the pulsing of some ocean god

across the skyline,

and the neon lights are like the Tattoos

of a Dreamless Apostle

insisting the light of the Eye 

should escape, go racing towards the edge of the flesh 

and then LEAVE

on it's way to some other world,

the one disguised as Everything else.

There is a gambling chaostrophe, as if the entire event 

is composing a scenario of such unimaginable strangeness

that one day,

not even the Priests, the Police, The Scientists, 

will be able to control the madness: a transcendental series of 

paradoxes that go undetected,

the way that Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers could slip 

through the Afterlife and get straight back to the Ordinary World

without even anyone 

changing the channel:  Three hundred years into the Thunder of the Photons,

which moves like a symphony of roadside gypsies,

they have transported a diamondesque entity into the jewelry store 

where an apparition is launching into a soliloquy of priceless objects,

describing in uncertain terms : the landing beams in the theatre,

the eyelids of the Mime.

On the edge of that moment, out where the sidewalks are full of people who cannot start 

talking:

but remain: lost in a symbolic war: eyebrows and signatures, heat seeking transpositions 

of Businessmen trapped in suits, the watering hole of the Serengeti 

playing it's howl, from the depths of a Supercomputer that nests 

somewhere Ten Million Television sets into some unfinished future, 

where there are no Actors:

just a series of Ghosts, dressed in Shakespearean Vowels,

wandering the Constellations 

until ...