A Blue Heart Catalyzed into a Birthless Death

surrender and abandon like the thoughts trapped in the attic itself

a series of echoes, spiralling in a resonance of cubist electromagnetics

through the wood, where his Grandmother's smile is still living,

and Child is playing a trombone, the strange domain of ideas and the disintegration of 

the human brain into a network of freckles, mirrored across the universe 

by constellations containing the mathematics of God, 

who divides by zero, does anything God decides. God even must do what God does not want 

to do, 

to maintain some semblance of Godliness, of course. 

At the same time, the tear stained letters ignite in a fury of architect's memories:

the phrases leap from window to window the golden light 

of a television show spiralling through the neighborhood at twice the speed

of your own imagination

thoughtless dogs racing, dismembering the shadows in the footsteps of their

forgotten life as wolves. 

They've gotten this down to a science, there on the far edges of the suburbs:

Those madmen,

whose eyes have been punched into a twilight of superstitions and broken teeth,

their Grandfathers resting in nested egress above the Battlefield,

some war that keeps playing itself out over and over.

.

The blueprints are like dragon's eggs.  They curl into wings that make the philosophers

frown.

A white pentecost, the ceremony of the lattice in perpetual descent:

a ladder that falls from the sky,

reminding the vagabond that he should not sleep where the discotheque ends and the 

strip joint begins,

but only there at the edge of the highway,

where the night is a blur of emptiness.

***

Polarities revolt. Opening into the Illuminated Skull of Candy of the Shopping Mall;

they remember last nights vomit,

spread sheets bloodied by the frat boys, a broken nose and a bruised eye,

the strange girl balancing playing cards  in an aquarium, when the room was full 

of geometrical puppets that seemed like they were speaking before they were talking,

their language scripted by Christopher Marlowe on the edge of the ocean,

winds whispering through the curtains,

and the air smelled like beer and salt and a purple chrysanthemum

that exploded in perfect rhythm to the sound of Alex Trebek

detailing the way Beethoven once walked through the streets of Berlin,

anonymous, caked in thunderclouds of madness,

while the Berliners threw broken glass at the sidewalk, 

a memory racing against time, until the smile breaks on Alex Trebek's face

and the puppets in the room have disappeared and all that remains

is the dark language of the electromagnetic abyss,

the brain is a light bulb and the world has gone silent.

*

There were ten thousand of these moments, 

when the Godless God hangs upside down on the Burning Tree, 

the rearview mirror seeming like a clock containing the hieroglyphics

of Heaven and Hell, 

a mute recombination, the permutations of Mystery.

They waited in the bathroom mirror: Roman Soldiers dividing by zero,

manufacturing alien heartbeats pulse by pulse, according to the blueprints 

that were everywhere.

One simply has to look: around the room, where the edge of the light is:

there are cheekbones, eyelids, apparitions whose names are carving themselves

out in a fury of waves and oceans,

Sahara deserts exploding in the suburbs.  The Vagabond knows this,

throws itself down like a human teardrop, exploding in perfect dissolution

of the cemetery. Death before dying, the inevitable past becoming an unimaginable future,

the secret physics of the Sphinx.

***

The Polarity of the Trees:  Ophelia languishes in the polka dots, 

her wooden shoes replaced by bloody feet, the bark of the trees full of rust 

and lies that the cemetery cannot contain.

The Tree has runaway from home: it is wandering the cemetery in search of it's

Master,

there where the periwinkles and the starlight are exchanging bibles

in the spectrum of the Architect's fears.

Hamlet is gathering the Dogs. Perched in the canopy like a widow lost 

in her father's face, the Apparition is turning the universe around 

flower by flower, the strange geomtry of it's power

like an echolocating bat that arrives on the edge of the stage just at the moment 

that Shakespeare is taking off his mask and the world

is spinning itself into a loom of perfect uncertainty,

the divine hallucination is gathering moss

while Ophelia's blue heart is catalyzed into that unknown admonition of 

deathless birth,

to live in the empty face as if it was fog,

a delusion of Saints, the night sky a pillow where the Dead Gods 

are sleeping in accordance to some undiscovered law that 

they designed at just the wrong moment.