Dostoyevsky Balances a Photon on a Grasshopper's Wing

Reconciliation of the opposites:

pantheon within pantheon: Greek Hindu Christians arrive in Papier Mache

hot air balloons above the Tokyo Shopping mall.

The air is the color of King Kong's left eyeball. This is the way the world begins,

again:  moment by moment, technicolor phantasmagoria

as if something had escaped the Television and transcended the trappings 

of the Photon.  There are geometric whirlwinds contained within geometric whirlwinds,

parallel lines that dine on the wings of crickets under the raindrops that 

wait on the edge of the tree by the Old Folks Home where 5000 years worth of stories

are sitting in perfect collective silence, voices whirring in lungs like 

jewels in an in an inaccessible goldmine, where nobody can go,

and every moment is haunted by the passage of something within something,

movements that cannot be defined by any known scientific method,

but only the human eye that is Born,

in flesh --- which is the Instrument of Mystery,

that which cannot be explained.  On the edge of one of the leaves there is a roadmap

that leads to the place where a coin has fallen onto the head of a cat,

landing perfectly, in a universe that should not seem so full of purpose 

or accident, and yet: this moment of combinatorial process, is the transitional

phase.  The coin begins to speak to the Cat.  this is a Catatonic Coincidence, 

and the cricket's wing escapes through the parallel lines at twice the speed of God's 

imagination, which is in a stage of accelerating acceleration,

and the sky is full of Atmospheric sylvans.  The mountain of the clouds

arrives and is immediately surrounded by haloes of light.  A turbulent ghost 

drapes it's name in the top of the sky, where there is a field of light bulbs

growing at the rate of one photon per eternity.  Somewhere one can hear 

Nikolai Tesla's brain churning with perfect Tunguskan monstrosities.  To think

of Dostoyevsky, leaping through Siberia on the back of a woolly mammoth, 

there where the last relic of starlight has traced it's path through the siberian

night, the stars are twinkling in a code that can never really be solved,

shapeshifting like ballerinas in the bathroom mirror.  There is a line 

that arrives in the center of the brain: it spirals through the gyri and sulci

in ribbons of perfectly symbolic energies: crucifix and mandelbrot,

mandala and aperture of fibonnacci, a trillion fractals converging 

at the threshold of the action potential, where : cleverly disguised,

is a menu of people who Smile in the Graveyard:  an exorbitant acrobatic 

nomenclature of anonymous beings: JEan Paul Sartre.  Nietzsche;

Celine, the desert Prophets, Ezekiel, perhaps : juvenile delinquents whose

radio frequencies are governed by laws outside of the Textbooks,

programmed by lichens and albatross, the hunger of the sea, the bloodthirsty

lives of the Forest Creatures, the wolverine and the Archangel 

whose eyes are mirrored funhouses of unimaginable fury, gathering grapes

under the tree that does not yet exist, but is growing in the capillaries 

and alleyways of subaltern beings 

rising on thermodynamics of Purgatory and the 13th Gate of Near Wild Heaven,

where the birth of Tragedy and Comedy are anointed in the strange light 

that hides deep in the human eye 

while sleeping.