How to Download Single Photon Moonbeams

The last atom of Eden.

There, at the edge of the Aluminum Foil, where the silence 

is a vortice of God's imagination.

A rainbow chrome.  The burst of green bird bones shrouded in a 

swathe of yellow light, in the vacant lot.  There is a

Methuselah, 

hair caked with the first thoughts of astroturf and an exotic 

delirium of xanax and whiskey.  He can smell the mathematics

brewing in the pinecone,

a scent that reminds the world of non  random integers

that have escaped the textbooks and are drifting from pillow 

to pillow. Where the rocks end and the ground becomes an admixture of

asphalt and broken glass, he can see:

an old woman's smile:  toothless, 

bathed in that weird silence of the very very old. 

*

Ten thousand books into the story of mankind:

a word races like a splice of wire, connecting the dream 

between dreams: 

in the factory where the vowels are champions of some forgotten 

Continent: islands of UUUUUUUUUUUU 

and mysterious sonnets that swim in somnambulence of 

the wordlessness of heaven. 

The ten thousand books begin to self assemble, telling stories 

between themselves when the Library escapes it's own skin,

atoms recombining at the edge of the window 

at just the moment that the sun slips down below the horizon

and the a series of guardian photons anoints the sidewalk 

with tangerine.  The Vowels are not lost.  There is the ghost of Euclid,

a cartoon of itself, wandering the sidewalks in a field 

of interchangeable syllogisms... 

A raindrop lands on the Witches umbrella.   Her heart contains 

a series of promises, stuttering blindly against the 

history of Time, and at the moment the raindrop reaches the zenith 

of her consciousness:  a series of quantum fluctuations on the 

Sea of Tranquility race into the dopamine shell of Astronaut 

Shelton, his flesh achieving the sensory definition of a 

tortoise eye at ten thousand quasars of night.

The word swirls in a raging tempest. She thinks Shakespeare is 

whispering in the fulcrum of the English Sky:  there are oscillation storms

reverberating in the dark space.  A series of cats that arrive in the 

darkness of the yard like pieces of a chessboard, their 

eyes scanning the horizon for the players, who never arrive

*

The zone is coded by a series of fractals: the knots and ripples,

the interference patterns of jagged probabilities swirling 

in various frequencies:  what is the probability of Uranium,

there on the edge of the carnival where the Gypsy eyelids

contain phosphenes shrouded by roseate purples, the transparency 

of an angelic prologue rippling in what the Ancients knew to 

be: the communion wafer of God's heart.

*

In the broken mirror, the day began: a Leviathan circling the strangers

who have assembled to hear the violins:  the women,

gathered in their Saturday sundresses --- jewel tones, auras of creation

bursting into a spectral blindness: vertigo of enchantment,

that transposition of consciousness that occurs in any given gathering

where the empathic brains exchange a series of ideas and thoughts :

philosophies, demographics, randomnicity, the hieroglyphics of 

the archetype.  The curve of an elbow, pressed like the wings of a bird

into the shadow of the glass, revealing a series of veins and capillaries

as rich as the mississipi delta: one can see sussurations of the rare birds

whirling in her Skin: until the first notes strike in the gathering 

and the Telepathy Ignites, a wildfire of Wisdom. 

* 

At the apex of the World: they have found : a thing that resembles

a smile on fire.  It is racing against Science, into the curve 

of knowledge and comprehension.  The Doctor has determined it to 

be impossible. The conjurations of an unfinished consciousness,

escalations of some chemical aberration, relics of the Cloud at the 

Watering Hole, where the Wildebeast snort raw vegetable furies,

and the Sky is full of Dreams the Flamingo wings cannot resist: rising 

through this phantasmagoria, a single thought escapes the Mud and is lifted

through the night on questions cartwheeling through constellations.

*

Sulci. Rivulets of hypnosis? Maps within Maps, until the world 

becomes a machine that builds a machine designed to destroy whatever 

happens next before it actually happens.  Is it designed to prevent itself??

A self assembling nihilist, gathering void in the void of the last moment 

before the dawn?

Awake.  There is a bird on the windowsill, and it seems as if the bird

is concerned with the ticking of the clock: an elegance of non interaction,

the ballet of abstraction, as if the world may acknowledge :

this is not really happening.  And in the crust of bread, 

the God finds a Sermon of Consciousness: the sunlight finds yeast

and the Bird finds a temple of the Next Wing.

*

Unfinished architectures, on Page 332: the blueprints for the 

Heresy of an Immaculate Modernity.  There is no such thing possible.  The 

last undiscovered tribe of the Amazon has shaked it's last undiscovered spear

at the Helicopters.  There is nowhere left to go except through the Television,

kicking and screaming, through the Rainbow like some unimaginable Noah,

anonymity lost to the gathering of the Technicolor Extraterrestrials,

on the outskirts of the City where a book full of nursery rhymes

is melting in the Summer rain. 

Reviews

[DoormanDan]

Okay, the first thing i have to say is that I LOVE the poem title. It's easily one of the most original titles i have ever seen. The rest of the poem is a creative masterpiece. You've written something wonderful here!

[Marri]

visual and mind-blowingly original. The images are so full-blooded that I can touch them, and yet so elusive in their metaphorical escape that I am left only with a dozen of questions and the unrest of having read something that says more than what I have heard. The rhythm you use shows great command of both your language and your stream of consciousness. Will be re-read. Definitly loads of vowels spilled inside!