In the IHOP of Nu where the Television is the Skull of Edgar Allen Poe

A phoenix in the stained glass window;

the ashes rise, containing a lost song

chiracos of madness --- the voice inside the Cathedral,

laughing in hysteria as the television repeats 

it's insane programming.  Ten thousand monsters roam the 

midnight.  Take your medication.  The remote control is pointed at 

Methuselah's soda bottle.  Take your medication.

I hear the Doctors talking through my stethoscope,

from Mount Palomar where Zeus is waiting to do the rhumba with a 

hula hooping Whooping crane on the Jerry Springer Show at 10.

 A white skull appears in the bathroom mirror.   I think I hear

my ghost talking about Las Vegas to a dish of peaches on the kitchen counter.

There are languages lost inside languages that are not languages at all.

There are enemies

within enemies;  liars of the Last Madness washed in laser beams 

that enter the room dressed in Surgical Robes, repeating words

they do not understand.  Write it on the chalkboard a thousand times

Einstein.  Now go play in the Video Game.  

A thousand corpses wait.  There are Golden eyed cherubim

gathering coincidences  inside the Stadium, where Echos fall like footsteps of the 

Leviathan, a dark chuckle of the instantaneous abyss.  Ourobouros, Captain Bligh.

On the white ship there is a Pirate who knows the meaning of the Void. 

They glow like radioactive salamanders.  They are singing the praises of the Unborn Man:

the Century arrives the way that Nostradamus falls asleep.  In the fields,

where there is a locked stone, containing the death wish of Parisian vagabonds,

a thousand fortunes and the key to the dream that sleeps dormant inside

the inhuman brain.

As the wind spins apparitions across the wheat:  the ghosts balance themselves

over the waves, every eye 

within every atom, opening into portraits of Queens that will one day erupt 

in the eyes of sleeping madmen: in the night,

they will arrive, washed in the thickness of thoughts 

of delta wave energies.

An alpha centurion anoints the sleeping field with footsteps.  The elephant screams

in the soul gathering darkness, a wild carnival 

of irrational evolution, the sound of fish screaming at the starlight while 

the Philosophers stare into Infinity,

and the one eyed King discovers  the place where the 

clock stops ticking and time begins talking, languages that hide in 

the algebra of the imagination, a series of equations that are 

coded in the face of the Pomengranates and the Lies of Seagulls,

haunted by the umbrellas that have gathered the rain 

to prove to themselves that the rain has a purpose, out where the hurricanes

are waging the conversation:  the war of creation:

a series of imploding eyelids:  there, where the last photon of the 

Bougainvillea is spinning into rhodopsins and the memory 

of God is playing hide and seek with the premonitions of the desert 

prophets.  A loop of blue light spins and from across the crowded theatre where

Abraham Lincoln and Richard Feynman are laughing.   The whispers

of the dinosaurs grow louder in the suburbs, where the chinese peasants

have planted their fallen superheroes.  The flood of mythologies 

 begins:  drop by drop, drop by drop: moonlight coagulating like 

phoenix teardrops in the depths of the star gathering  brain:

serotonin, dopamine running through the central nervous system

as if they were rivulets of the Ganges.  The doctors announce this:

The Serotonin in the brain.  It's the Serotonin. The dopamine,

the serotonin, the dopamine.  Rama Rama, guru, Krsna Vishnu

Dopamine for sale, ten dollars a Bottle at the Local Apothecary of 

Post Modern Atlantis:  The war began ten thousand years ago.

The guitar is firing blue notes and cannot be stopped.  Make

that sound stop. On the edge of the Moon, there is an episode

of the Nightly News.  Walter Cronkite's face spinning in delirium.

 That's all we know.  That's all you need to know. It is an obelisk of insanity, 

perfectly designed by the ionosphere, raging it's pseudological fantasias at twice

the speed of the Ordinary World. 

If you argue, you will be thrown to the floor and given an injection, 

so be quiet. Watch the video.  The pacific ocean, where the salt reeds are waving in the 

wind.  They will calm you down.  Only. If. If. Only. If. There were a series of chain 

reactions that they could not describe:  the blueprints contained a 

language that was composed inside the ink itself.  Sapphire embers, the shampoo of Near Wild Heaven,

the secret logic of the fire fighting pyromaniacs, 

the flame in the carpenter's eye, leaping in algorithmic madness

 straight from the grave of Edgar Allen Poe, 

whose corpse is sequestered in a secret location.  Perhaps it is not a corpse

at all.  the ink screams, and there are ten million stories hiding in every 

question mark.  Ask Hemingway, who in his last moments, stood at the edge of the window

and knew nothing. Do not listen for the sound of the shotgun.  There will be no explosion.

Listen for that perfected silence, and before 

the silence, the silence that reminds us of the mystery that 

cannot be solved.  Then leap into the ocean, on the other side of the ocean

that contains the trillion jewels.  An exquisite adamantine endlessness that 

knows there is nothing not to know.  It announces everything, 

and surrenders itself to the unfathomable permutations of the architecturally 

mad beauty of the world that existed in just that moment 

before the moment of birth, when whatever was. 

  How to live in this moment, to stay between frequencies, 

to gather electromagnetic ribbons, chrysanthemums of twilight superstitions 

and surrender to the lost place 

where the yellow becomes green: the green becomes blue,

and the edge of the sea is an umbrella discovering itself 

and the face of god wheres a trillion masks at every moment,

and nothing but the random uncertainties of Heaven and Hell 

contain every mystery possibly described in any language ... 

as seen on TV, when the dead gods are listening to the sound of their 

mythologies writhing in the summertime sand, 

and nobody can explain anything to anyone

 and the world is new and the night is like 

a Cadillac of Recombining Catastrophes,

the world of the unborn escorting the desert prophets into Kentucky Fried Chicken

at the rate of ten million kilobytes per infinity.  Change the channel 

and you will understand the way the human heart breaks.  Open the top 

of the sundial, and the moon will convert a thousand fishermen 

into priests of the last Toothy Smile, 

there in the chaos of the twilight where the sadness of Humanity 

whisks itself across the curb like a newspaper headline containing

ten million nightmares in a single word,

the world is crushed by the sound of a horses hoof clomping across

the grave of Friedrich Nietzsche, 

who sang of Nihilism in a voice that not even Godf could not understand.

On the edge of the television there is a point of light. It is not a point of light.

It is not even anything.  It is indescribably indescribable and absolutely normal

and exists everywhere and nowhere at once, and even if it could be understood 

it would not be understood. The television lives in that moment.  So do the fake 

flowers,  and pixellated faces in the high school year book

 full of strange sayings that the Editors 

phrased in just such a way so posterity would characterize those years as if they  

were scenes from that  Movie.  The One that Taught you How to Be You.

so one day you and they and them and the others gathered in

 the audience would just understand everything.

That's the spacetime event that transcends the moment.  

That's the place where they self assemble the Magic.   Ghost Gods  chanting, cheering

blindly in echolocating vampires, transversing the wasteland at the speed of light: 

blindly behind the Prison Palace, anointing themselves holy and wise and perfect 

and unfathomably cool. On the edge of the fake plastic flower, there is a lagoon of 

methylethylketone. Made on Jupiter. Containing only 

elements of the Noble Gasses.  Argon Krypton Radon.  It smells

like the breath of Medusa.  Somehow one knows; 

it contains the wisdom of Solomon, a hieroglyphics of Cats Tongues,

melodies of thought burning out from the Taste buds: slightly transposed 

through the daydreams of Charlie Manson (as seen on TV!) and that television commercial from 

1973, the one where the Native American:  is crying by the side of the garbage dump.

This  Lagoon:  the one between the human brain and the television:

 contains jewels that sit and scent the air with phantasmagorical catatonias:

  Benzenes and oxides, chemical transpositions of light waving colors of impossible artistry 

across the spectrum of mortal being.  This they will not understand this in the laboratories 

of ancient Tunguska, where Tesla and Poe are waiting, like the ghosts that they 

once were: sequestered in the Cellar, the Laboratory, opening the mind to the Thermonuclear

Void --- spinning in the post conscious symbologies of harmonic imaginations against the flow of entropy,

there, waiting like Godot, for Godot, to discover Godot is waiting on the other side of the apparition,

and the Orchestra  announces the birth 

of the next Opera: 

in the theatre, where the Object that is an Event that is not an Event at all, 

is balancing itself against all odds

in a series of maneuvers that will transpose everything.  The television set 

combines with the breath of Edgar Allen Poe; the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe 

opens into the scent of Kentucky Fried Chicken, the scent of Kentucky Fried Chicken

whispers a prophecy of billion dollar magicks into the suburban night,

and the world converges into a series of words sung over the airwaves

by Robert Plant.  There are a series of thoughts, that wait in history.

Over time, in a process, a pattern, they happen:  like brush strokes

in a canvas, cubist developments.  The sky turns black like a widow's smile,

the stars spin in a trillion axes, the atoms begin to move in a series 

of uncertainty: and the moment crystallizes.   They release the knowledge and the wisdo 

the way the clouds arrive: