The Infinity Verbs

And as the Eye of God commutes the Silence of Ground Zero One Zero One Zero; the indescribable

Verb enters the Event Horizon of  a  Palace of Still Points hovering in the human heart

 that is bathing it's memories in the fractalline masquerade of  Sleep Eating Shadows as they

enter the Cathedral of Pulsing Astonishments, where

tides of bloodlit Imaginary Beings curve SpaceTime into embers of the Adamantine Void

until the  Ordinary Extraordinary World of the Infinitely Improbable To Be Continued Continuum,

orbits a Mandala Mandala within Oscillating Scintilla of that which Never Is, and Always Was,

and the Ovulating Novae evolve like Lost Love into the Ultraviolet Void of  Undiscovered Mysteries

that only  Happen when they Happen  in the  Endless  Amnesia of every Unfinished Beginning,

and the Earth of Her Face becomes  curvature of Perpetual  Birth that  sings Nightingales of

Light into the Gateless Gate of the phantomesque Angelical Unknowable  Unknowns,

the Question-powered  Apparition, a.k.a. the  Non Local Non Linear Quasi - Sentient Entity

that wanders the blank page of an Unwritten Book as the Story of the Story

that Tells the Tale of the Night that Everything Happened at the Same Time

an exponential iterations of the Map that Turns Yesterday into the Mirror Image of Tomorrow

gave Negative Entropy  to those who gathered at the  Church of the Immaculate Coincidence of

andTranscendental Onomatopoeia, when the Severed Ear &amp and a  Levitating Tongue,

haunted the Eye that Watches itself Watching Itself into the Nightmare of  Enchanted Vertigo

and the N dimension exoskeleton of an Infinitely Complex Shaped Experience foxtrots

around a swarm of waltzing polka dots

to the moment of  (R)Evolutionary Weirdness, where an Isolated Photon levitates a

a nest of  Rainbows  into the dust motes tap dancing in Mona Lisa's left Eye until

 Leonardo's  quantum hindbrain  shimmers in ten Shades of Shakespeare's

Sunbeam Scented Shoeshine and the Star Crossed Louvre reappears like a Blue Pearl

at the vanishing point of Everything that is Not What it Seems to Be

somewhere in the Sea of  Thermodynamic Sleepiness,  a  Million MOuthed Mamba Mambos

onto the Summit of Minkowski Mountain, where a fountain of  umbrella flutes

ululates  the Diamond Uterus Sutra in a post symbolic probability field

 of every  unlikely yet absolutely actually truly happening and unfathomably

supralogical non-event

at the Cathedral of Catacombs and Spectral Continuum of  a- Symmetric Chromatic Synchronicity

where Ophelia  weeps  a bead of Boolean Dream Bees into the honeycomb of Hamlet's  heart

and chimeras cartwheel in carousels of caravanserai and the daydream haunted nucleotides of an

Unborn Magician's Upside Down and Inside Out Face

thru a trillion permutations of the Indescribably Imaginary Adjective as it wooshes

around the Pronoun of  Instantaneous Anonymity until the Universe

collapses into a Quark  Eyed Godlessly Godlike Goddess

and the Uncreated Creator trips into the Temple of an approximately Infinite  If

just as Fred Astaire tangos with a Thundercloud into the constellation of Irrational Numbers

near the drainage ditch discotheque and Suburban Nirvana during an episode of World War Wha???

 that everything *somehow* becomes the Thing that is Not a Thing at All,  a Nothingness

lost where the Raven and the  Jabberwock  zig zag and tick tock sideways through the

Zero  Gravity of God's Baby Words

and the Soul of Absolute Simplicity strikes Paradox Paradox of

Ten Times Two +/- X / Y (SQR -1) until the Guru Cuckoo clucks Ten Taoist Owls on

the  IsAmAreWillBeBeingWasWere  O How O Who O When' O Which O Where O Why O' Clock

and an Infinitely  Purple Electron Yawns Aria 52 into Pavarotti's Ten Gallon Eardrum

and through  the synaptic cleft of  a Supernovae haunted Cerebellum,

as the Ghost of William Shakespeare ENTERS:   Stage Death,  cleverly costumed as a Sock Puppet

demonstrating the Fuzzy Logic Soliloquy and Socratic Dialogue daydreams

of Thespians and other Isolated Variables in the Theatre of the Thermodynamic Heart

 where the Primadonna  Gala Dali whirls Ballerino Nijinsky's Eyelid across the proscenium

  as he pirouettes into  perpetual denouement of the Hallucinatory Cyclone of Pandemonium

in the Double Agent Superdupermodel Game Show Soap Opera Crime Scene Infomercial

 as the  All Tasting Mouth exhales a Supercomputing Pinecone

upon esoterically juxtaposed and  heliotropic parallelograms of

 Impermanently Impermanent Impermanence

(at the place on the map where the  Robot Goddess places a Human Fingerprint on the

Electromagnetic Nothingness at the Beginning of Time)

and by the light of the Aluminum Foil Grave and the fury of the glow in the dark Womb

the Fuzzy Logic Noun discovers itself winking itself to sleep in a Broken Mirror

that is balancing  Angels made of Chlorophyll around the Temple of the Praying Mantis

in whose gears and clockworks rides the riddle of  the Calculus of Celestial Insanity,

and the Tarantula dons  it's Picasso Wig and trips on trills across the Vampire Toothed Piano

causing fugues of  Rubyait Shaped Spaceships to lilt in  lily light of Illuminated Lovers

laughing as Michaelangelo's communion wafer becomes the Wing of an Imaginary Songbird

sleeping in the Ten Ton Teardrop  that nests inside his   Paintbrush Time Machine

waiting for Godot to arrive in a Trilobyte Tuxedo, to  pose in Pointillistic Silhouette for the

 Pre Cambrian  Pieta,

and the crucifixion of the Chrysalis is a Casino of the Exoskeleton at the Beginning of Time

when  pantheon by  pantheon  a trillion  chthonic avatars  haunt the  dialectic kaleidoscopes with

Mystical Apostolic Postulates

in the Cloud chamber of an antediluvian prophet's Swiss Army Plague of  Optical Illusions

sing like  zephyrs on the Zenith of the Shore of Mandelbrot Mountain

where the Mirror Image of  Helen of Troy

calls the phalanx of orphaned Argonauts into the Sitcom gamma rays

and the Vineyard of  the Wine Fueled UFO is whispering

a trillion blue note parables of the  Angelical and Tranquility Fleshed Poor

into exaltations and the  ultraviolet vapors  of  the ancient Extraterrestrial  Folklore Snore

and the   chorus of  Intergalactic Pterodactyls chant tantric canticles of  an

 Orchid winged Blackbird's apocalyptic  claw clued caw

spinning the Pawn Shop Tarot Cards into dizzying astonishment as the Chessboard erupts into a

Saga, Raga by the Rasta Vagabond in the Swan Song of a Self  Assembling

Kierkegaardian Corollary  as the G-d Quark disappears

into a Revolving door, one trillion pigeon  winks inside the golgi whirligigs of

the Queen of Cortex Vortex Voodoo Juju where a paint by number Daydream

bathes it's blueberries in the Binary Code of Heaven and a Self Assembling Rainforest

balancing Sparrows in the field of Pharoah marrow Sapphires at  the retrograde elopement of

the  transubstantiating   Vowel howling holy onomotopoia at the Center of the Lemniscate

where a  flock of  Enchanted Changelings are

 calculating polyaromatic hydrocarbons during cartoon  armaggedon

in the Give Me back my Missing Money Mental Mindless Mind  Machine

as the Sound  of Mozart's Disembodied chromosomes perform Sonatas of

the Mockingbird into a  brimstone  Cyclone

that flickered in Nostradamus inside Out Eye  as  the shadow of the  Dragon

breathed a Dream  of  Lucid Dreaming where the bride and groom swoon into

 the Solar  Honeymoon, in the Kingdom that Cannot be Discovered,

all flowers facing Marveled Miracle of the Moment of an Incarnation

Cycle,  the Alpha wave of  Exponential Octaves in the Still Point where an alleyway

 of  Mid Manhattan is echoing with Showtunes sung by the

 Aardvarks of Aldebaraan who dream of teaching Astronomy in Atlantis when the

Puzzle finally wakes like a post Platonic palindromes hidden somewhere in Times Square

and the Allegory of the Algorithms exhales the Serendipitous Omniscience

slithering through the Legend  like a Cyclops chasing Mime at the corner of 5th Avenue

intersection of where Picasso leaps into the Sleep that does not Sleep

and the  Polyhedral Godhead at the Summit of  Olympus,  where Sappho weeps the Starfire

into the   Non Local  Library, whose Books have crashed in Silent Tides of elementary cognition

thru the Central Nervous Systems of  Godot, Rimbaud, Cocteau,  Bardot, Van Gogh,

and the countrywestern chakra of  the Socialite named Marilyn Monroe

as She  tip toed out of Dante's prologue on a burning pendulum of filigreed insanity

 through the thermonuclear   carouselambra  of  Fibonacci paparazzi and the

Reverse Engineering of the Architects  at the bottom of the Yo Yo powered Unicycle riding

on a Big Bang Boomerang into the Psychedelic  Sea, where Teardrops tell tales of Semolina Pilchard

who fell Up  the  Eiffel Tower and into the Flesh of Lady Godiva

cresting Eden scented salted Spires upon the Dolphin's sunburnt tongue,

at the place where ten thousand mud haired zombies

howl Shangri La and Other Hallelujahs of a Sail that Nests in the Regress of the Abyss

 and the Unforgettable Lexicon of

sorrow that turns laughter into laugh lines murmuring memories of  bubblegum

 and gogh gogh gogh, van gogh gogh gogh,gogh, van  gogh van gogh, gogh  gogh gogh, until

Mother Goose sweeps in Three  Wings

into Rimbauds sun drunk chinese silence like a lantern shining with the

Nightmares of the Sweet Hair that is served in the  Feast that  Leaves,

a post neurotic quasi logic rumination of Belief, the Moon that descends down the Druids Spine

wakes on the Sunburnt Page of Endless Meaning within Meaning,

her smile laced with  blue Parisian candlelight, Stonehenge spiraling in her Eyes,

a thousand funeral  pyres of  Immortal Beings pillowing weeping willows into the Crested

 Blue Light and the  Lace of Faces in the  parabolic arc where the Oak Elf  grew a Name

and the Kingdom of the Nocturne, shined with phantasmagorical stealth

ten thousand Light Drunk Angels in the  Valley of the Chateau of Breath,

an Infinitely Anonymous Nothingness is singing differential equations of  Eden on the Third Day,

and a tarot of tattooed Wiccan Chimera purse their mouths into Xylophones of Fire

 exuding torchlit Orchids on spiraling papyrus,  phosphorescent Metaphors

 of the Orphic Promethean Matador,  chasing the Bull of Pyromania into a Hurricane of Blood

whose  thunderclouds bloom in Conga lines of Jungle Bongos and the Jaguar's Ten Million Eyes

 weirdness pulsing in the sinews of a Woman's  Tomato Powered Face

until the Queen of Unasked Questions whisks her lips into a Tornado, her necklace made of Lies

and the ocean swings a  silver  saxophone across the surf of the Tide that Flies

the juxtaposed integrals of a cloud of non random random numbers

trampling Nine Thousand Modern Miracles and the Post Modem Muses into a phase space  levity

as Sphinx to Phoenix SingsJinxed Anarchy of  a Non Local  Rubicon, the Aria of Area 51,

lurking twelve thousand infomercials  inside a bowl of beggars Kryptonite flavored soup

where the Fairy made of  Typographic Errors bathes in Poe's Raven colored inkwell

and the Phantom of the Future Screams Tell Tale Name of G-d, the Moon

 motes quote the Raven on Mare Tranquilatum where Pi is Even Odd,   looping the

tetragammatron from Shangri La to Disneyland, and the Electrolytic Sonata sings

interstellar esoterica into a starry night, breathless exhalations of the

Adamantine Satori and Clitoris of the Ensorceled Ruby Light

The  newspaper is a shroud of  Embryonic Oscillations filtered through an eyelid colored straitjacket

wild brainstems screaming screaming polyphonic roadside bloodstained dandelion koans

through typhoons of heliotropic  cubist entropy

until a leukocyte coils it's leonine gardenias

and b***h slaps the  scowling demigods back into  the hindbrain of an acrobatic w***e

where the contortions of frog eyed gossip and the Cage of Raw Meat Mannequins

and Mouthless Babylonian Cosmonauts charge the star spangled  Pandemonium

into industrial strength  virgins with  hymen churning like slot machines across the skull of

Mephistophelean  peasant goddess  just at the moment the

Post Robotic Toreador balances the multi-verse|

 in the quasar squall of nonesuch at  the heart of the Empress of the Hive of Holy Heaven

And the dead G-d inhales a  Luciferian soliloquy, to the Lilies in the Field

and the Telepathic Visigoths chases Lemmings into the Belly of the Whale

until a grasshopper rolls  it's ten trillion eyes across the  candelabra of  enchanted algebraic fire

  at the edge of  some broken sidewalk when  Godot's tornado swoops

 in white sea of Rimbaud's golden Roses and a  serpentine valentine bursts like Brigitte  Bardot

 on toeshoes across the dimestore

birthing  a  masquerade of Zeus during the  Zenith of the Sisyphean Zephyrs

 as ten thousand seraphim whisper  white noise into the Shaman's bioluminescent lie

 just when  Columbus gold dust tinted fingernails

 send rainlike phosphenes quivering in hemidemisemiquavers through the  bookstore that

harbors only shelves of  unwritten books

and the exoskeleton of God is a  garden of supernatural monstrosities,

where the Grandmothers grow wings and flicker into the Opera of Pyromania and Stardust

the  Empress of Flame pirouettes across the chasm of  daemonic chiarascuro,

Socrates heart  shimmers like a Ouija board in the shadows of a Sidewalk,

apparitions of wildflowers chant the name of  communion wafers

into a cauldron conaining the  Last Drop of Wine of  the  Unforgettable Hell of Sleep

somewhere downstage center where Shakespeare's plumed eyelashes

are laced with mandrake scented murmurs of  Ophelias' luckless summer  tastebuds

and hamlet's bat faced boomerang whisks the empyrean tide

across the tangled  cosines of the Machine that Ate Tomorrow

 the bedroom opens like a broken mirror

 revealing Medusa's tongue curled in rose petal gargoyles, thorns that

 writhe with incantations of the thievery of birth, a woman's voice that scales the night into

a diadem of pentacles, the chakra of maleficent orchestrations,

Buddhas adamantine footprints paused on the surface of the Sun,

and the name of  the nothingness, like  ______  ______ ______ itself

balances ______ ____ _____ as the eye and the sky exchange vows of eternal telepathy

fractal arpeggios  of the Illuminated Leviathan, , the Pharoah of poets, Arthur Rimbaud

washes Lucifer's heart with  antediluvian phantasmagoria

serendipity spun quarks chant scarlet tanagers on chiracos of uncharted madness

 twilight twisting its death wishes  across the golden dawn and mandala of sephiroth

 a jungle of juxtaposed luxuriance

feral laughter in the century of unfinished thought

spinning Crucified archangels on the Z axis,

when Hieronymous Bosch sings  OM OM OM OM OM OM OM OM ONOMATOPOEIA

 paean ennervations of the Canopic Nix LOOPED in doldrums and the tantric cadillac

of hipster faced chameleons, their lipstick a cryptic whisper

the peacock mystic of  of Lilith's exponential tryptich, a twelve tongued plunge into the cauldron of

memory and mirage ,

where starlit rastafarians charge the darkness of a starlings spark

 into chromatic fevers of a hydrogen heart, the titanium cranium bristling with the photovoltaic insanity

of a frozen neon forests  unfolding it's fingertips into antediluvian denouement , a disco of psychopathic debutantes

the lips laced with the fevered amnesia of megalomaniac obsessions

performing  inhuman kabuki in the lycanthropic wolf Flowers; the cortex of existentialists howling

premonitions of the comet that has landed,  glowing like a disco ball on the White House Lawn,

a flesh fueled flags billows the breathless ballads of  einstein, the nursery rhyme of the Archangels,

variable theocracies oscillating

until mary poppin's umbrella bursts into flames of monsoon fueled illusions,

until semi imaginary Dryads churn philosophy ferns into the mythopoetic fibonacci

where twelve thousand Houdinis disappear into the Marvel and Magnificat of the Seamstress' mouth,

her  pulse a drum circle of endless salvation, the footprints of a thousand Christs

tap dancing through the Stations of the Cross  in the Cathedral of the Unknowable Unknowns,

the antechamber of voice

the silent moment of her awakening, a trace of salt on Her CHeek,

the enlightenment of absolute non motion,  a triangulation in the starlight the

night before the day her Parents met,

and the moment that never happened, happens again, a butterfly neuron  begins to assemble

 the soil into ghost of a pocket calculator

just as an Acorn enters the daydream, a teardrop falling into the mouth of God,

crimson palindrome hunting themselves in knotted bacchanalian hieroglyphics,

history, a vagabond  swallowing it's heart as the Universe extinguishes it's belief,

 one pantheon  at a time

at the exact moment Neil Armstrongs foot steps onto the Moon Linoleum, his toes tingling as Christ's footsteps on the Sea of Galilee

the rocketship turning the universe upside down

at the Moment of  Infinite Weirdness

when spacetime converts the sacramental wine into a blue light of blushing polka dots

and the angels balance their eyes on the edge of an anvil colored mouth,

as if Time itself was not Happening

and the Serengeti erupts into a weave of optic fiber and lions sinews, the magic carpet

careening  towards

a landscape of unfinished thought contained in the last ionic bond of a thoughtless stone,

moment by moment until the last moment  the neologism of a new word,  like the shriek of a jaguar on the cusp of a moon

enters the labyrinthine coils of an unborn being

 where the Stories of the Stories that have escaped the imagination of an imaginary G-d

float like candles in the belly of the

Summertime  sky,  the first cloud of dawn, a silver faced dragon,

breathing ten million superstitions into whirlpools of transubstantiation,

the honey scented treetops,

the harpsichords of the Beings of the Green Now

swarm like eyeless across the surface of a lake

where a puzzle of sapphires and pearls, the coral reefs of electromagnetic logic

escape through the copse of a svelte velvet vertigo,

the vine that howls zephyrs of the enzymes of Night

through the holy grail of Human Mouth, the tornadic simplicity of an elephant heart

whispering a  whirlpool of emotions, the first songs of Canaries, the last gasp of the Zoo Zebra

rumours murmured by the secret agents of the last maternity ward, at the end of time,

the sun setting

as a  trillion gods disembark out of the spaceship of your left eye, the  heavens

billow in by number phantasmagoria, Godot erupts in applause

and the prayers that remind one of footsteps you took into the ocean,

the everpresent WOW, a syllable of the Birdsong discovered inside the sleeping  Egg sings

the First Song at the edge of a fire draped heart

whose wordlike multiverses  purge the  nostrils of the perfume of the Djinni of Eloquence

the verbs that crawl across the number line where an infinite number of zeros have discovered a golden apple

draped in costume of a cyclops eye, the dream anointed pheremones boiling in the white sand Nirvana

a howling mathematical

collision,

the variables of a exponent hearted Bodhissatva building buddha hearted Boomerangs

colliding in the skeleton of the Zoo Lion,

where a video erupts in the

Storm God's lungs, starlight that drips into human flesh like honey from a bumblebees mouth

*

in the stratosphere, the newspapers print words

that reveal nothing

Typographical errors that evolve down

 punctuation marks nested in battlefields of unfinished verbs,

 cuneiform crystalline catechisms,

 wings and cryptologic pyrotechnics,

diagrams  of Madness, flowcharts of undiscovered tragedy

wings that whisk the dream

through  the rock shaped

veins of Vikings and the visigoths of suburban dystopia,

where a  dogs  mouth pursed into the starlight,

the  unfinished nightmare of  an encyclopedia

rotting in the summer grass,

the crickets eyes like a supercomputing Genie

coiled where cobras of hieroglyphic weirdness,

spin silent  whims of  night in

the husk of the thirsty soil,

human brain spins an Easter egg into crucifixions,

the Old Woman’s garden  kaleidoscope of broken gods,

burning syntax of fireflies and the Apostles of Dust

theology breathing wild ennervations of the Saints

the mouth of the Lake

opening and closing, a ghost of sulfurous furies, the sybil

exhales

an incomprehensible Noun:

the requiem of an Athenian shore whispers

platonic distortion, the

reeds  sustained by Lightless

orchids whispering the soliloquys of bumblebees

who know: they are not Flowers at all

they are not angels

they are indescribably impossible ecstasies

 exchanging vows  with

nuclei of the absolute enchantment, there

 in the  middle of the night

when the Sorcerers

  slip through the world on in flesh made of fractals and fire.

  A trillion whispers gather

On the horizon of the human heart

 And the  Fish is a  fist of Fire and syntax of Fear  of

InfiniteFreedom

Assembling  a nests inside the video game of God’s heart

and Word within word is  suddenly erased by the sudden sweep of

the

UFO,

a vampire tongue licking the language from

 ten thousand newspapers fluttering

 down corridors of fragmented skin,

 wildebeest chanting the dusk into bacchanalian frenzies,

taste buds gorged with the bioluminescent wine of insanity and

wisdom,

 brain boiled laboratories of blackberrys

spilling from the caskets of newborn soldiers,

bones that wait for the Eye of the Angels to exhume themselves,

spontaneous combustion of the alchemical  graveyard,

 a Seraphic mechanization of Time,

when the Abyss is a Sybil in Sibilant Systems,

 the letter S racing through the world

 in a series of Inestimable Synergies.  One screams,

 at just the moment Amelia Earhardt descends

from the Clouds Laughing

 and  Universe is a parachute of imaginary beings,

thrown open,

 and the footsteps of God are like twelve widows waltzing

through windowsills bursting with inexplicable tears,

whispers of Wintertime,

 rising in the roses, the  Wheats scented

 bracelets of  Sun

as Van Gogh’s ghost detonates sunflowers in the cracks of a

summertime sidewalk

a daisy’s worth of the salvation of God

nihilist laughter heard just as the sky goes deaf

 ***

On the ancient greek shores, a trilobite has  called a Ghost

Down legends of forgotten numbers that wait for the

Mathematician’s eyes to open

To strike like hammers in the Flood of Flowery extropians

  And the dog Faced Queen peers

Into the bottomless Fog,

New meanings, capillaries of algebraic monsters,

Dragon’s wings billowing like the broken glass that sings

the name of G-d as if it was a nursery rhyme,

vowels that taught the nightmare to crawl

through the centuries of Nightmare,

 Madame Curies eyelids rippling to radioactive blueness

of her tear stained pillow as it erupts in tear shaped bullets and

the   plutonic pyromania

where Quasars and Gaslamps

sing the lace face of Amelia Earhart as it descends through the

Sky in fractalline

sequences of acrobats

crushed by the Ocean sand

where an Octopus  flickers  it’s imagination at the face of

Einstein...

whose memory has balanced ten trillion variables

at the top of the ocean,

, the same way a television set

turns itself on at the Funeral of Madmen,

where a beggar sinks into the soil  in search of an inhuman smile.

This ghost somehow has no knowledge of where it is anymore,

like that moment of sudden realization

in any Given City

when the avenue turns upside down

 and the footsteps become symbolic refrains

of the moment before the universe escaped itself

and the starlight converted it's face

into a series of broken toys being disassembled

in some hysterical system of disbelief

and one hears the  light singing inviolable mythologies

through the curtain of the human brain

***

On the day the Ouija board was invented, there was a Greek witness stirring the coals of a strange fire

that was made of dead men's skeletons.

  Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, the light beams carved from Sappho's remains,

a wild unfathomable sense of mystery as the smoke

polished the lungs into a Spirit that knew nothing

but contained phantomesque speech of the Sphinx,

there on the sand, full of turquoise and roses.

The ocean was a wild chrysathemum, a noise of something slurping itself into sleep,

the way a sailing ship

 is crests through the Neurons of Einstein and a flock of

weather beaten prophets suddenly appears,

there where the beginning of time tastes like a root beer float,

and nothing remains save the sad eyes of conquest,

Columbus bright smile,

a tattoo the natives

have etched in their skin like the nameless God  --- on the edge of the ocean

where there is a moment when the first Ion of the Sea

exchanges wedding vows with the last Ion of the Sky

and the wind is a train tunnel of bicameral phantasms

tracing empty alphabets against the current optical modality

of the Sea Lion's eye, the Eye that Opens into the Darkness of

Infinite Night

***

An astral lattice, laced in lace

of the Philosopher's face, the color of paper mache

opening like a mask

into some strange domain of Ideas and Ideas

and the Freckles of Lost Children

who wander the Attic waiting for their grandmother's clarinet

to ignite with the Soliloquys of Beethoven, nine thousand new vowels

 chased by the wind off of the Angelic tongue

the blue notes bursting into old tear stained letters,

containing phrases of surrender and abandon,

surrender and abandon, surrender and abandon

like the Attic itself, an afterthought made of some

architects' daydreams --- fueled by vegetable syntax,

laughter  the color

of Old Curtains, those same curtains that

not even the Ghost of Belle Star could refrain

from wearing around her living room as a Cape,

that day when the clouds were like

children,  Kings and Queens of the Great Dream of Heaven

***

The polarity of Consciousness is suddenly reversed.

Whiteblue crests  bend Seaward, where the blueprints are like

Bearded blueness of Shocked Argonauts,

 every one of them burbling over in the Salt Fire

and Godless wisdom of God,

endless resurrections of Dolphins breaching the surface of Heaven and Hell

at the Same time, synchronicity of paradox, Gods eye pursed around

a piece of broken glass in the Sun

the Universe shimmering on the Sea Lions tongue,

the white foam of an Antelope's eye

lost in the Sine and cosine of a memory that bursts

from photon to photon, remembering the day

Harry Houdini cursed the Bearded Saint in the

funhouse mirror, his tongue suddenly the color

of aluminum foil,

his cheekbones billowing in bursts of burning curtains,

Pentecostal serpents writhing in his skin

As the Tour Guide arrives and began quoting Moliere

As if None of this was really happening

and the clouds and the Sky began chasing Old Men through the autumn leaves

the language of Love inverting,

a Chalice of Stars, a Starlit Palace of  Laced chandeliers igniting

with Sermons of Unfinished Knowledge

Verblike Beings escaping the papery cage made of Bluebeard's

birthday cake.   There, where the howling began.

Moments later, the Supercomputer seized control

over the Ionosphere.  The Polarity of the Trees

became the Spectral signature of the Chameleon’s Skin

weird hieroglyphics that explain nothing to anyone,

the voice of the Sphinx: carouselambras of golden sand,

something lost in the eye

like a Name that cannot be found

 ****

There is a Casino on Venus

where the Messiahs go to wait their turn,

leaping through the ammonia and sulfur

on footsteps the Earthlings discover like secret codes

in their Bibles,

the letter A like a toeprint of some unborn being,

the Letter B, a white winged seraph breaking out above the clouds

churning with the perspiration of the Saints.

In this Casino, the Winner takes the Daydream.

At dusk:  the calculations are made,

and the Garden of Eden is planted again.

The Gods arrive, like famous People.

Socrates,  Zeus,  Ahura Mazda, the White Goddess,

Kali Yuga, the lost children of every fairy tale,

a series of Queens that have been permanently insulted

by the color of the Skies on their Coronation day.

It is these poetries that remind us,

that the Casino is not a Casino at all.  It  is a Maternity Ward

of Mystery, every dime slipping into some uncreated creation,

like the way a Trilobyte Self Assembled

one day when nobody, not even the Philosophers were

paying attention, and the Universe spun

like sugar on the crest of a wave.   That is the way the Alphabet

began.   The Letter Z, a wounded Unicorn.  The eyelids

of Poseidon swimming over the waterfall, paper boats

disguised as the letter J.   Then, they all knew, the world

was made of Beginnings.  Words that had endless meaning,

like a Seahorse fossil discovered on Mare Tranquilatum,

Neil Armstrong said.

***

Nocturnal Neologos Allegro,

Dante, like the diamondesque eyelids

of lipless Iguanas sunbathing in the Astrodome,

on Christmas day when Nothing Happened

and the White flag was raised

over the Sundial, like a strange portrait

of some Geothermal QUeen,

the nightmare of Galahad

discovered painting itself in the Undiscovered Temple,

ten thousand feet below

the Pentagon, on a moonlit night,

that night, when she was walking through the darkness

and the deer led her into the unfinished world

step by step, her madness increasing with every

raindrop that was not a raindrop at all,

but a series of jewels

falling from her pocket, just like they said

would happen in that fairy tale

the one where only the raven knew what the Fox

was saying and Utopia was discovered,  lurking in Russian ballerina's eye.

***

The power of Suggestion,

is a wet tongue balanced on the Salamander's heart

pusling,  the newspaper print is racing across the world

declaring War upon War on the Celestial Orphan,

Orphan after Orphan, bloodstained and weeping in the Temple,

 declaring War on the Sky,

a birthday party for nobody.

 The Sky tells the

amphitheatre it is only joking, the lightning nods off at noon.

A strange chorus of crickets arrives like

Matadors in the library,

a summer full of homeless people lost during the Red Queen's coronation,

every eye a salt shaker, a chalice made of stars

that cannot teach anyone how to speak the new language

which is not a new language at all,

but rather the pulsing of Soldiers who go insane while

buried and sleeping

inside the Ovaries of the Unfinished God

which are discotheques that let nobody but those Seraphim in,

until the Last Song is playing and the Universe dissolves into

mere superstition.

***

The power of suggestion:

a styrofoam cup falling from the sky,

with the word beyond the word

racing towards the edge of the Universe

in the Madman's eye,

where all parallel lines converge

and the Kaleidoscope is a particle Zoo

full of Greek Philosophers,

resurrected by the Vapors themselves,

up from the dream

on the breath of dandelions

and the Altocumulus, where even the mathematics of God

have not discovered themselves,

but wait, on the edge of the Sky

like a hurricane of memories travelling through

Galileo Galileo's eyelid.

*

It is then, when the Universe creates a Canary,

a wild whisper of wings that lift out of the Soil,

wonder.  The birth of a Pinecone as witnessed by the constellation Andromeda

through the prism of an Unfinished Poem,

where nobody and nothing

exist as they actually are,

but rather circumscribe the world in weird tangents,

the language of Thieves,

the chatter of Gypsies on the sidewalk,

a discotheque of existentialist alienation.

***

As the television exhales a sitcom of disincarnate parallelograms

the living room ignites in a jungle of broken

thoughts.  Strands of wisdom.  Light beams

the color Mysterious Joy, dissolving on the skin

like Sugar dissolves on the Surface of the Sun,

a landscape of ethereal weirdness

controlled by the Omnipop Void,

like dreamers trapped in a Strangers skull,

where the hypnosis is as powerful

as the thought of broken glass,

or a mermaid bathing her eyes in the Hurricane

at the Beginning of Time.

*

There is a sundial inside the flesh,

trapezoids fluttering in semi-rabid colors,

Angels leaping like doglike beings

through a circus where nobody goes,

the Funhouse of Infinite Fantasias

controlled by mockingbirds made by someone other than Mockingbirds

as if the Universe

was a wheel spinning in every direction at once

going nowhere simultaneously,

until the Eye Burst open

and the Sky became the Ocean.

***

Their faces were designed by Cactus,

mouths like boiling balloons,

opening and closing in the bright sun

to the rhythm of the sunlight as it crashes

on the water,

where a Dryad is turning the Sky inside out

as if to prove

nothing except that the Unfinished World

actually exists.

There are no other explanations except how the blueness

turns yellow, for a moment, a hawks eye empty of language

the sky careening through a network of feathers

until the world arrives at the moment there is no sky at all,

just the strange heresies of light

becoming a refuge of Infinite Infinities,

where babies that have never been born,

and who know nothing about the way the Bougainvillea

chant random numbers as they sprout from the dead mans head

that season in the wild grass,

after the War --- the One that Never Began

***

where She stood, the light was made of blue flesh

--- an arm, in twilight --- racing towards some

 moment of sudden awareness --- the papery stillness

of her hair, pursed into the wind

--- a flag of memories.   The slowness of heaven

whirring.  A white glance.  Supernatural wisdom of a

Leaf.  Supraconsciousness of a Kite

rising on the exhalations of all humanity,

 childlike into an empty cauldron where the stars

glow like potatoes.  And nobody knows anything.

There is a capillary, blue green, in the Arm

that trembles like a piece of yarn,

wildly suggesting some magical coat

glowing  in   the meadow of sunlit Snowmen

racing into the Earth,

laughing off key until the flowers explode

in perfect uncertainty  of  Gods solitude

***

gathering plums off the table,

a twilight of skin crushed by the silent waves

lapping at the Castles

built by God in the heart made of Sand.  The dusk

juggles moons into orange eyed

felines, turns the trees into the face of a Hag,

nightmares trumping daydreams

as the green grass drifts into it's whispering syllogisms

law after law converting

in the Church of Disbelief,

that moment when Something slips Out of THE EYE

and the Stars acknowledge your First Thought,

a wink that bursts from ten thousand light years away,

a freckle falling onto the hospital floor,

for just a moment,

the Womb of Heaven opens up into Strange Emptiness

at the Beginning of Time.

and every baby that has ever been born

suddenly hears it's name being sung

by something asleep in the wild embers of the Unfinished Sky,

like a Magician, a harlequin,

whose language has been earned

by listening to the footsteps of Clouds, the love poems of Ceiling Fans,

the soliloquys of workers trapped

in some dark room where the Banquet of Minotaurs

and Medusas has begun,

and the world is like an Unfinished Map

of Some Mysterious Mystery that does not wish

to End.

***

Confetti fills the Beggars eye

that vacation in the Anarchist's Village,

when the suburbanites

drove bumper cars into the ocean,

singing the love songs of Frankenstein

while the world burst into a Video Game

and nobody noticed anything

except the way they wiggled their asses

in the Center of the Pentagon

where the dead Gods gathered in suspense,

waiting to be saved

by the Transcendental Smile of a Messiah

whose work was never done,

but kept reappearing in strange places

and the sudden inexplicable wisdom,

gypsy queens balanced on rooftops,  dogs eyes boiling like monkey poems,

Traces of Lace Curtains slithering through the edge of the road

where the Queen of Woodstock is still standing,

waiting for Someone to finish the song

that she cannot stop hearing in the nuclei of her brain,

like wow,

they said as they hitchhiked into the Forest, a caravanserai

of Cartoons, shiny quarters seeming like the fingernails

of Pterodactyls,

useless until the night turned Green and the Silver reminded

them they had places they should be,

like at home,

where the Movies had actors

and nobody ever had to do their own stunts

and everyone got paid millions of dollars

and wound up explaining it all to Oprah

by the Light of the Sturgeon Moon.

***

A wish fulfilling cup, empty as the skin of the Subterranean Goddess

waiting like a human ear

for the music to arrive,

a tongue that stirs

it's wishes of the lost world,

on the balance of the night

where the edge of the cup and the sky

are conversing in the language of neutrons, protons,

philosophers whose flesh  and speech is

designed by the beginning and the end of time

as if they were separated

by anything more than a single wink,

trillions of miles seperated by the randomnicity of intergalactic space,

the word of the words

 a series of thoughts evolving like

dolphin crashing onto some windswept tongue,

sugary elements that reveal the syllogisms of God:

one coconut tumbling onto a moonlit beach, ten witnesses to the watery death of Jonah,

some tide, a curtain of unfinished wind,

 racing against the flesh

into that same tea cup,

the wishes explode

into an abandoned city full of nameless people that race

through the streets

wondering if they are racing through the streets

or if the stars are racing against the curvature of their skin,

where the angels have gathered,

disguised as series of freckles.

*

The silences grow, in the stone trapezium,

the teacup rattles like a bone in the hand of a ghost,

the ghosts eyes suddenly opening to reveal

your own face,

tilted up towards the sun

that burns in a trillion hallucinations,

a trillion hallucinations of the Incomprehensible thought,

the Thought that was never discovered

but left it's place, sleeping amongst the unfinished paragraphs,

tea leaves

crushed by the fingerprints of

some ordinary, imperceivable Buddha

***

in the temple of the unfinished world,

a trillion madmen are describing themselves to the Stars,

their eyes shocked by the strangeness

of the curve of space and time into a sudden disbelief

that any of this is actually happening,

like tickling the face of God

to see what happens,

until the doorbell rings and a faceless stranger

answers,

revealing the sneer of some Convenience Store Fakir

in the cold light of the dawn,

where the forest is multiplying it's cellular nuclei,

as if to whisper

none of that, none of that, none of that ever happened,

whoosh.

And the admonition of the Satyrs, in that temple

is to burst against the Sky,  and land upon the jagged cerebellum

full of ancestors whose faces

have not escaped the basement of that Void,

where the Creator is weeping

in Blakean Silence,

the last Londoner dancing on the roof

until no song remains

***

A neon anemone, the dandelion of antedeluvian endlessness,

the white fire of Socrates heart

pulsing in a furnace as Plato Laughs,

really you shouldn't have.

The starlight arrives on the wings of a dolphin,

lightning snatches a whisker

off the bottom of the discotheque floor,

and Greek Islands disappear in a Yawn.

*

They are curled like cats inside the Spanish moss,

waiting to tell the tales of the Mausoleum  Before Birth,

a strange carriage that arrived

as if driven by some desert prophet

straight into the Maternity Ward

where the nurses were singing an unforgotten song.

*

Every purple weirdness has lifted it's face into this

world of solitary confinement,

the eyes becoming multiples of themselves,

integers racing across the flesh of man

until the equation leaps out of the book

and slips into a church made of

Shark Bones and Wire,

and Plato returns with a Kite

to teach Aristotle the meaninglessness of Summer,

how Autumn transcends the polarities

the moment a leaf

begins to ballerina

into the ground, a white sail on the verge

of Infinity

***

in the bowl of greens, there is a Garden Salad Green Man,

bearing face of Uncurable Superstitions,

the wounded Knight,  a face charged by Infinite Regress,

guarding a Doorway that Leads

to the Stairwell that Leads to the Doorway

that leads to the Stairwell of the Doorway that

brings you to exactly where

you have always been

and until that moment,   the Universe waits:

pinecones quivering like the arrows of God's silence,

quoting broken music,

the vegetation does not harmonize,

but remains like Mozart hypnotized by the Lark

balancing starlight above a pond in Salzburg,

his Mother's face a mystery  of music

within music,   a carouselambra of dreams

that sings in silver wings,

the poems of the Lost World dangling in it's beak,

that Green  & Dizzy god lost in the gambol of ambiguity,

there in the parade

of verdant admonitions,  the Vertigo of every eye in the Forest

boiling up in cold fusion supernovas

as Heaven and Earth exchange the stories

of how they became what they think they became and

how in becoming they will be what they were not

until suddenly,

no more, like a question mark exploding in the Night Sky

the treetops burst

into a yellow flame that cannot be explained,

that does not remain,

but floats in a mystery above the silence

like the face of God

in a bowl of Soup

***

Three silent sentences,

brooding in Temples of Heliotropic Dusk,

the smell of fajitas,

curled smoke in the darkness of the philosopher's

shadow,

a cat above the treetops,

the weird world balanced on stilts,

an american night

charged with footsteps racing

across the iron heart of the earth,

a dance of Ions,

the Memory of God contained in a Broken mirror,

laughter spiraling through the center of the sky

into some unknown location

where a Scarab is listening for the sound of the Ocean

white noise balanced in the Surf,

a listening station full of Supernatural Spies,

Starlight gathering it's peaches

on the curve of the antedeluvian ear,

like a word falling into the dirt,

containing meanings unknown to all save the Living,

a place where the Skyscrapers rise in wild lightning

of the Architects brain,

synapses converging in disincarnate rhythms

of the synchronized pulses of a City

that Has Not Yet Existed.

*

A purple golden, the weather vane whirls

around on the edge of the roof,

every eyelid for 1000 miles,

perceiving the great whispering of the grass,

wings lifting into the echo sphere

the way a smile opens at the edge of a curtain

*

A green theatre.  There, where the river

turns the stones into Human Hearts,

the Human Heart into a network of enchantment,

the enchantment into the real,

the real into something that does not know

itself,

until the ocean arrives like a cloud

on the tip of a tongue,

pursuant to the beginning of time,

a strange color

that only the Tigers can see.

***

an Incarnation of Vishnu,

spinning like cotton candy on the edge of the

lake

where the fish sing strange songlike bubbles that burst

open the sky,

making the sound that destroys infinity

in the blink of an eye,

until the moment:

a ray of light descends

into the reeds

revealing a symbol of God's suffering,

a crucifix, perhaps

or a frog's eye,

the strange eyelids of stone

opening to reveal a world full of elf built kaleidoscopes,

colors that refer to the time before time,

when the sand was churned into glass

by the solar plexus of some

alien sun,

and the strangers drifted from scene to scene

remembering things that had not happened,

perhaps never would,

like Yesterday.

*

A smithy of carouselambras, the Blacksmiths eye

a cyclopean flame

buring out into the starlight, wisps

of vision trembling in blue and golden

flame at the edge of the anvil,

where a vagabond has built a heart

made of cast iron sinews,

bridges that go nowhere,

vacuous convergences of white light

and iron,

the elemental Spirit that collides

with nothing until the

sky breaks open,

howling the unfinished thoughts of the last wild  Eden

****

Light is alive,

sleeping in the casket as

if it was the toeshoe of

some graveyard ballerina,

en pointe and whisked by the laughter of grasshoppers

into some strange cerebellum

bathed in the fluorescent light

reflected off a blade of grass

as wise as Lao Tzu

in a sandstorm.

The  visitation of the ourobouros is when the oscillation

converge,

a point by point

harmonic

of the humming belly in the center of this Earth,

every cavern an esophagus,

a subway of arteries, opening into some thundering caw

of the unborn phoenix,

whose beak is the color of King Midas tongue,

trapped between atoms while licking the sunflowers

at the edge of the Empyrean Dawn,

until the moment Van Gogh's lost love

appears,

carrying a thundercloud of Ears,

ten thousand moments before

the next moment begins,

like the flaming sword that falls into the starlight

and can never be retrieved,

until the beginning of time,

which resembles the edge of an ocean wave

dancing into the sky,

a mermaids wing risen in the wet paint of sunburnt feathers

when,

Quetzlcoatl drifted in the sunlight,

unknown.

***

Puppets where their faces had been,

rolling across the lineoleum

designed by chemists trapped in Siberian Discotheques,

out there where the number line

burst out of Teslas eyes,

raced towards Tunguska in a wheelbarrow

steered by Baba Yaga herself,

a travelling hut

that made no sense when it detonated

like Baba Yaga's smile

above the Russian darkness,

revealing secrets

that would one day coil through Rasputin's

brain,

opening into the syntax of desert prophets

Ezekiel's wheels

spinning in ten directions simultaneously,

a gyroscope that was engineered

in the daydreams of Limbo.

***

The burning ember of the disembodied God,

left in the styrofoam sand dunes

derived from the formula

of the Magician that Had Not heard of the Equal Sign,

suddenly stirred,

the moment a dolphin

glanced through the crest of the wave,

witnessing the reeds

tricking the stars into falling

and not stopping,

there where the clocks were collecting dust

at the boundary zone between

zones of galactic entropy,

the place where gravity inverts

and the angels are traced in the eyelashes of MC Escher,

whiskers whispering

stairwells abundant through the nocturne

that began the moment

Beethoven died,

on the edge of the fireplace,

thinking of sounds that the solitary confinement of his brain

could not contain,

but bled,

a white rose rising in the purple sunlight

until the moment

the Castle spiralled above the City,

disappearing into the Starlight

unnamed and unknown,

forgotten by man

***

The symbolic war

began

like an episode of Jerry Springer,

the curse words

flowing into jigsaw puzzles of human suffering,

a wild eyed gypsy's tattoo

launched into the ether

by the tesla coil of some television

that knew not how to stay silent

but turned suddenly holy,

like a priests mouth

at the end of time,

surprised by it's own disbelief

in the words

cresting on it's whiskey scented tongue

*

Night after night, Edgar Allen Poe

would arrive on a cat's whisker,

dressed in a cloak made of newsprint,

just as John Lennon described.

Stupid Bloody Tuesday.

Poe, balancing the eyelashes of Semolina Pilchard

in his fingerprints,

lifted open the open window,

like a cat, riding backwards through a crime scene

composed by some Greek Philosopher,

the one who gave Socrates the recipe

for Hemlock.

*

There was an oracle, in the sliver of the Venusian Moon,

a strange sapphic angel

charting a course for the Andromedan light,

bathed in the silvery photons reflected

by the moondust of mare tranquilatum,

a secret recipe

that nostradamus described in an unwritten quatrain,

the same way that

the streets of Florence illuminated underneath

Dante Aligheri's footsteps.

*

A heartbroken Ouija Board,

leapt from the snow, revealing an avalanche

of misplaced vowels,

every one Unique, just like  the parrots of the Amazonian River Basin

described...

a series of wishing wells, shaped like the center of the snowflakes,

each one containing a magic

lantern,

began to illuminate against the natural color of the sky,

like the ghost of Michelangelo

dancing in the chalk

above the mirror image of the sky

***

The symbolic war

began

like an episode of Jerry Springer,

the curse words

flowing into jigsaw puzzles of human suffering,

a wild eyed gypsy's tattoo

launched into the ether

by the tesla coil of some television

that knew not how to stay silent

but turned suddenly holy,

like a priests mouth

at the end of time,

surprised by it's own disbelief

in the words

cresting on it's whiskey scented tongue

*

Night after night, Edgar Allen Poe

would arrive on a cat's whisker,

dressed in a cloak made of newsprint,

just as John Lennon described.

Stupid Bloody Tuesday.

Poe, balancing the eyelashes of Semolina Pilchard

in his fingerprints,

lifted open the open window,

like a cat, riding backwards through a crime scene

composed by some Greek Philosopher,

the one who gave Socrates the recipe

for Hemlock.

*

There was an oracle, in the sliver of the Venusian Moon,

a strange sapphic angel

charting a course for the Andromedan light,

bathed in the silvery photons reflected

by the moondust of mare tranquilatum,

a secret recipe

that nostradamus described in an unwritten quatrain,

the same way that

the streets of Florence illuminated underneath

Dante Aligheri's footsteps.

*

A heartbroken Ouija Board,

leapt from the snow, revealing an avalanche

of misplaced vowels,

every one Unique, just like  the parrots of the Amazonian River Basin

described...

a series of wishing wells, shaped like the center of the snowflakes,

each one containing a magic

lantern,

began to illuminate against the natural color of the sky,

like the ghost of Michelangelo

dancing in the chalk

above the mirror image of the sky

***

As they constructed a tear from the nuclear furnace of her skin,

single photon rainbows ignited

in a parade of astonishment,

ribbons of the lost ourobouros

racing into the subspace between the chasm

and her schizoid flame,

a dalliance of breathe beneath breath,

lungs pulsing against the roof of Time,

where SPace has collapsed into an ellipse,

wandering the Library disguised as a series of

vagabond freckles,

each stranger turning cartwheels through the card catalogue,

typos spontaneously erupting on the tip of the Librarian's tongue,

until some distant undiscovered poet

slips through a revolving door

into the chambered nautilus

on page 323 of some unfinished book

that nobody's ever read, anyway,

but sits gathering momentum

during commercials at the Apocalypse,

when everyone begins shooting each other

to prove they really care.

***

a flame

sprawled over the city

like the scent of Nostradamus

drifting through the Carnival of Lilies

there, where Paris has just begun

to chew the soil

into cemeteries of famous men,

the white foam of angels

cresting in the bones of Pere LeChaise,

a wicked revolution

full of Morrison and Rimbaud,

those whose visitations knew no name,

but leapt and kept searching through

the fields of that anonymous pain,

a world draped in spider silk

and broken buildings,

the best wishes of liars

lifting into the air at the end of a strange visit

full of words

that nobody understood,

only the strange blossoming

of bougainvillea underneath the parasol

empty

and devoid of any name,

a whirling subset of disincarnate phantoms,

who will not remember anything,

but drift through the fields

bathed and generating silence

***

a flame

sprawled over the city

like the scent of Nostradamus

drifting through the Carnival of Lilies

there, where Paris has just begun

to chew the soil

into cemeteries of famous men,

the white foam of angels

cresting in the bones of Pere LeChaise,

a wicked revolution

full of Morrison and Rimbaud,

those whose visitations knew no name,

but leapt and kept searching through

the fields of that anonymous pain,

a world draped in spider silk

and broken buildings,

the best wishes of liars

lifting into the air at the end of a strange visit

full of words

that nobody understood,

only the strange blossoming

of bougainvillea underneath the parasol

empty

and devoid of any name,

a whirling subset of disincarnate phantoms,

who will not remember anything,

but drift through the fields

bathed and generating silence

***

On the day the bumblebees disappeared

leaving the world in shades of Stainless Steel,

one by one, saluting the flowers that were swallowing

the emptiness of the Sky,

a strange chant lifted through the forest,

reminding the prisoners

the chocolate rainbow was nesting in the bark

of the tree

at the center of the story,

where the symmetry was greatest and the

King and Queen could not find the entrance

to the Kingdom, to the Castle,

but remained smiling strangely

in the temple of rainbows wrought by perpetual darkness.

This created,

on page 23 of the Book that rested on the Bottom of the Forest Floor,

a cross pollination between the language of the Greeks

and the Silence of the Moderns,

in the same tone as the chanting

of the Whipoorwill who had fallen asleep

while studying the prayers of the

Spider that bathed in Infinite Light

***

Imaginary Mantras of an illuminated albatross

spanned in first sunlight above  the  nursery rhyme soul

of an uneaten clam,

laced in white curtains and an ocean of salt

that churns up ten trillion non random numbers

out of the Sleepy Face of God

whose love is  risen on a summery crest

of the soft tide spiraling

in the knotted flags of unicorn tongues

waving in turquoise  over the beach,

bathing the birth of Heavenly beings

in the essential perfume of the  Seahorse that gallops

into the Octopus Moon,

a ship full of punch faced Pirates

spinning their sinews into nets of mad madness

edged by  fingertips of anemone and cathedrals of Coral,

those strange perfumes

sifting ghostlike galleons from the sand dunes

whose ten thousand shades of photons and light

reveal the last thoughts of  the dying  Columbus

when the footsteps of seabirds balancing unborn beings

on the edge of the Sea of Undreamt Dharma

while a Sailor,

perched in the last thoughts of Christlike Noah,

there in the sand, washed in wet whispers

with Sandpiper wings tinged in mystic ignition  of

bioluminescent enchantments

the baby talk of Heaven, a dolphin smile rising

in the spiral ire of  the swollen open waves,

the Land Beyond Human Comprehension, the Mouth of God

 spilling an Alien Sonnet written by some Sleeping Being

in the

absolute  Silence of  that which has never been Born

***

Circuits of interdimensional sinew,

a series of illuminated algorithms,

the strange thoughts of some primordial being

lurking in the Skin of a Newborn

just as they described while dwelling

in the Labyrinth of Crete,

there,

one night

a Cave full of Philosophers

Plato, Socrates

whirling around in the red phosphor,

a strange series of synchronicities

 running from the beginning of Time

into the Oracle's Tastebuds,

foaming with the Mysterious Language of the World

before Birth,

the World

without Circumfrence, without Center, the World

outside Time, on the other side of Birth,

on the other Side of Death,

buried deep in the mitochondria

like a treasure chest

full of incomprehensibly Starlike

Walrus Eyes.

***

Hieronymous Bosch,

his daydream, a new cartoon painted on the surface of

a mirror falling towards the ground

.

As it shatters, Hieronymous Laughter is heard

on the other side of a Doorway

deep in some indeterminate Amsterdam,

where the ghost of einstein

is pretending to be asleep in a room

that is as bright as the first moment after birth.

*

A name appears in the tree leaves.  It is written

by the Sparrows who have collected dust from the Ground,

the effluvial pinecones whose logic

is traced in the number line of unfinished beginnings,

a strange spiral, like a fingerprint

inverting in the movements of an acrobat

at the opposite side of Time,

where the world is a juxtaposition

of memory and idea, imagination and madness,

the convergences that make no sense

ever,

only the pretense, the sudden sensation

of the familiar,

a light bulb turning on in the middle of sleep,

to wake in a still darkened room,

eyes like candelabras of doubt.

***

her face, a black guitar,

played wildly by the lunatic virtuoso

of the Shade,

the Sunlight itself a music of the spheres,

a photon per blue note,

the magician of the pythagorean night,

a black hole spinning inside the

porous membranes of a green leaf

on it's way into the forest floor,

where the birds

have created a Non Euclidean Sonnet,

like shakespeare's face

written in the geometry of an Unknown Woman's

cellular nuclei,

his Mother smiling through a veil

as Ophelia falls off the stage

and earns another Violet,

and the audience breaks into the laughter

that cannot be contained by the theatre door.

It is then when they discover a mausoleum

rising from the ground,

corpse by corpse, a garden of memories

exiting Stage Left, pursued by Priests,

nurtured by the molecular structure of tears,

falling back into the cheekbones

as if to remind the sky

it too, is a Mirror of Uncertainty.

***

Striding into the

palace of the Insane,

a golden thought ripples from the sunset

into the window,

across the fingertips of the Ivy,

the chlorophyll singing some unknown

name,

backwards through time, the way

Light often does,

Alice in Wonderland on her way to some furious

congregation

that can only speak Calculus,

the Nightmare of Lewis Carroll,

a number line writhing from inside

a weather beaten grave,

where the Palace is made of nothing but Stone

and Soil

and the Last thoughts of God,

as a child sways in the crib,

remembering nothing,

remembering nothing,

just a broken gallop,

something racing it's way into the Sky

like Pablo Picasso

entering one of his own paintings,

dust motes gathering in the eyes of a Bull.

***

In the salvation of the real,

there is a moment when the Universe stops.

Just like they told us,

back in the Garden, when the Graveyard was growing

it's ghosts,

scented like the lilies,

a white tambourine racing towards the edge of the Night

draped in fingerprints,

sounding like the voice of the moon,

exploding off key

until the sturgeons in the Night began

to swim towards the horixon,

and the Fisherman whisked the lantern

through the  charcoal scented cloud,

just as they taught

the Jesuits, in the year that Nobody could remember.

*

I stride inside the Palace of Red Fire,

remembering the boots my Grandmother wore,

as she jitterbugged against the wind,

her teeth glanced above a glass table,

the plates empty, but something still remaining,

a husk of potato skin and the indelible curve

of crumbed cake,

sugary as the moon that fell through the Fishermans Eye.

*

An urchin in the clouds.  The light house signals

the Seahorse to gallop across the pine trees,

every whisk of it's tail

championing the Non Euclidean Curve,

Minkowski Space

like a Childs Eye the moment before Conception,

somewhere in the place

where there are no questions or answers,

just an echoing echo

***

In the Unbuilt Cathedral,

growling dandelions can hear the footsteps

of a superluminal being as it slips from eye to eye

in whirlwinds of color,

transparent delusions that race from the mouth of the spider

into the treetops

on ecstatic perfumes that smell like the breath of God,

a nightmare cologne,

a poisonous toxicity to the stone

brooding on the edge of the river

like the face of Methuselah

969 years old,

waiting to discover a snowflake in some new garden

a place that has never heard of snow

but suddenly

is cloaked in the celestial ordination

of rain that falls

in the rhythm of  3 degrees celsius,

whatever that means

to the clouds,

there gathering their angels

on th edge of the sky,

where the starlight is cloaked

in Ions.  And on the edge of that

river, the babbling brook

reminds the birds there is something

that happens far away,

some strange roaring, a eardrum washed

in the tongue of bioluminescence,

a splashing something, the Mozart moon

calling the seabirds

into fugues of blue notes, churning

like the belly of Buddha

on his way through the bonfire

that strange day on the Washington Shore,

when the rocks wore faces

that could not be described.

***

the history of life is unwritten,

a strange unwoven tapestry

turning over in the night like a pillow

underneath a newborn baby's head,

there,

in the land of the Tabula Rasa

and the unending promise

of the unremembered future,

like a world

where every footstep is a punctuation mark

in a book that nobody has ever read,

but is filled with pages that

turn

like the generations of life

on the edge of the world between worlds

where the eye

and the atom

and the atom

and the eye

and the ocean and the eye

and the cloud and the ocean

and the raindrop that

sleeps in the ocean

rises into the sky

in convections of unfinished symphonies

where the hurricanes sing

like Canaries

***

on the shore of the lightless island,

a fool's gold waits

where the water is silent, a strange pause in the tide

like the memory

that cannot be retrieved

while the moon is admonishing the stars

to remain in their place,

a strange conductivity between the ocean floor

and the edge of the known universe,

like the eyes of Tesla

scanning the Russian sky,

and seeing what is not there, but should be,

there

where the forest is filled with strange creatures

assembling berries

and sticks that glow in the dark

and Baba Yaga herself has struck the notes of a chord

in the forest

reminding the honeybees their wings are not made

of honey,

but something other than that which can be discovered

in the Cookbook,

where the language of the light

has been disassembled and reassembled

in a rhythm that makes sense

to the Bears that are dancing

in the Siberian Sky,

the lost world becoming itself

moment by moment

as Pythagoras slips from his boat

and lands on the Sea of Caspian

***

rubies whispered into lip light lily of a curl,

the white beams dropping

gold scented atoms

around the heart of an unfinished story,

the moment the grasshopper

discovered crumbs of plutonium

around a lightbeam

resting between the blueness

the redness

the green fields full of blush darkened

farmers,

whose eyelids contain phantoms of

ambiguity

the same way the curtains of the theatre

must open to reveal

a Shakespearean Sonnet

escaping from the mouth of a small town Ophelia,

her eyes in the theatre

full of mysterious question marks,

as if the Universe was remembering some

unfinished eloquence

***

the asylum,

where they dress the lunatics in white flowers,

strange glowing chemicals

like the birthday cake of Pterodactyls,

they race like undiscovered angels

into the light of the television set,

screaming Japanese Haiku,

chanting the language of undiscovered country,

while the windowsills collect

the wings of dragonflies,

the pulses of the Doctor churning in the Office

in a strange sequence of transcendental numbers

Galileo composed one morning

in the strange light of Florence,

when the nightingale revealed the Sound.

*

Under the moss by the stone, in the place where there

is only sunlight and fish that chirp as they rise

into the sky on the beak of the unlit angel,

rising, the Fish

assemble theories of the Trees,

the Trees assemble theories of the Bird

the Bird,

the River, the River derives it's ghosts

from the edge of the ocean unfurling itself like a flag

of incomprehensible beauty,

the anemone themselves

curtains that open into the beginning of Time.

***

In the sky, there: She said

there is the mirror image of an open window,

like a Castle

full of Strangers who do not know anything

not even that  they are strangers,

or that they are nested in the sky

like parallelograms

above a starlit heart

full of words like transcendental leukocytes

that move against gravity

into places

full of the last thoughts of Beings

on their Way to Be Born,

there --- in the place,

She said, of the Uncreated creator,

an argyle tapestry of berries

black berries,

blue berries,

strawberries,

pursed like the laughter of the Racoon

in some shaded grove

made of nothingness,

an open throat of the Bird like Being

***

There is a machine

made entirely of crucifixes

out there,

on the edge of the world,

where the light is exchanging

recipes with the darkness,

a strange world

of imaginary beings

that are not imaginary

at all,

until the Doctor arrives

from the other side of the

Waiting Room Door

and questions trip from eye to eye

as if anyone knew anything at all,

as if the world was made of machines

or bones

or Kingdoms of Green Beings

whose energies are like Conquistadors,

whose hair is like the Venusian Prayer Shawl,

whose entrances and exits are composed of subtle

genuflections that remain

trapped in the eye of a Jesuit.

***

The holy strangeness, like a typographical error

in 10 dimensions,

exited through the greenhouse

the same way a the ballerino Nijinsky

fell off the stage

and landed in the darkness

the same shape as the Beard of Rasputin,

every eye in the theatre

like a fist

waiting to open

and reveal what the Fortune Teller said

when the Gypsy arrived

in the Red Square,

disguised as Madame Curie

an electron fog laced in the green curl

of her breath,

as the clocks leapt forward one single solitary moment

the day the Universe

exhaled

***

In the sunlight, where the world ends

there is a path made of recombining miracles

where every eye races like Godot

into the hydrogen center of the Sun,

where a  strange flame burns like an Ocean of Ballerinas

 dancing  into electrons  like Jaguar Masked hyenas

balanced in the florid repose of memory exiting the exit wound of

imaginary beings

the transcendental pirouette

spontaneously erupting  in the ligaments of psychotic

vagabonds, ten thousand miles away

who sense the earthquake inside their empty skin

chanting lost verbs,

as if ordained by WHO?

When She enters the sunlight, where the photons sweep

in the sand revealing fractal Zoos

of Sandpipers talking backwards to Crustaceans,

Fish that crest in the Chant of the pointlike binding of the waves,

skeletons of God curled

in white ribbons  of the tide,

where the prayer shawl of the Sunlight

has thrown down a newborn Moon

 ***

a holy fire: the syllables of the unborn

rain like the ghost of Nostradamus,

in the fields of Ardennes,

poppy smoke that reminds the children

there are places they will never go,

memories that cannot be discovered,

lurking in the soil

like a woman's face that tunnels into your flesh

in some bar,

on the edge of the night

when the lamplight bursts into saxophones

of golden insanity,

a ferris wheel of faces whirling around the room

*

the door opens, a white world slips into the street

at the edge of the curb

where the names are lost, a blur of broken tongues

everyone trying to lick the cheekbones

of strangers disappearing as if it was the apocalypse

and the star of God

had descended a stairwell down the street

and knew something else

was happening on the other side of Her Face

that began

in some faraway world,

perhaps on the edge of another curb

where there were twelve languages

burning inside the skin

and through the window

everyone heard a crash

and laughter,

and disappeared again, a broken mirror

that could only be discovered

at morning when the sun rises.

***

hades,

an opalescent endlessness,

the mother of pearl bathing in the eye of a turquoise eye

in the death scene of a unicorn,

when miracles escape through the curtains that open

in the center of the sky,

the fist of some unfinished being

reaching down

whirlwinds

a lost face spinning against the edge of your own face

bringing the temple into a dizzying chorus

of broken hearts

breaking in rhythms that have no rhythm

but sound like the way people might dance

on hot coals, if the world was

a never ending funeral of wild beings

bathing themselves in the fog

of the dark sun

which is everywhere and nowhere at all,

a strange carousel of magic:

the tarot cards,

the Empress, the Cup, the Wand that Traces the Path into the Stars,

a silent world

rising out of the ground

person by person:  the grapefruit scented baby

the dream that begins in the eyes of a Lunatic Priest,

the word tripping across the flowery fingers of a pianist

opening the mind

into a night of new beginnings,

where the world moves on footsteps of shapeshifting pathways

that always lead back

to the beginning

***

in the sky, there is a mountain that reaches down

with empty fingers,

the Mountain climbers falling from the Sun

into the Ordinary World,

onto some empty street in the middle of the night

when only the Wolverines are watching

and the tall grass is explaining the Bible

to a pear that has fallen from a tree

and is rushing with the new ideas

that one day will burst inside the brain

of some theory mad madman

who has eaten the Last Supper with Christ

a thousand times,

rehearsing every crucifixion in the dark

when the mountain is moving around us

and the exotic color of the sky

has no end, but the constant permutations of the Mind

of a Virgin,

her face a prayer shawl

that has risen from the dust of that Hotel,

the one where the Astronauts were gambling

for the  explanation of the Rose.

***

inside of the axiom there is the seed of a vine

that grows in point wave point wave point wave

oscillations of a book that is being written

by Tolstoy from deep inside the grave and that will one

day grow like strange flowers

shooting out from the mouth of Orphans

on their way into the Churchyard,

when the anarchy is as intense as the first moment of birth

and the words of those beings

were still undefined,

every eye was a UFO

every Sidewalk a Zoo of Indescribable Creatures,

discotheques where the Snow Leopard

has eyes that spin like poisoned red Dice

against the motion of the sky, until down the street there is a

painting that has spilled out of it's frames

the paint rippling into veins of womanly weirdness,

a purple river of veins that began when?

The sky, tripping on blue windowsills

gathering the wings of flies

as if they were Halloween Candy

as if they were made in a Fly Factory,

as if they were waiting to be eating by Broom Hilda

as she slipped across the windowsill dressed in the

leaves of an Ivy,

chanting in pixellated embers of the Golden Green nightmare

that bathes in the print of the newspaper

as if it had never been written

***

there is a silent audience gathered in the sky

disguised as Neutrons

Oxygen, the Angelic honeycomb that floods the lungs

with bees

whose names once flew off of King Solomon's tongue

when his laughter was churning in his belly

like butter,

and the Sun opened it's throat

and sang,

the color of Tigers, the Manifesto of the Bougainvillea,

the African Savannah

trembling like the eyelids of the Leviathan,

one by one

Polka Dotted Gazelles

and Golden Striped Lions

Triangle thirsty Birds lapping the tears of crocodiles

from the watering hole where

the Flamingos began,

suddenly in the reeds,

startled by the sleeping eyes of the angels of creation,

as they slipped around the reeds

discovering new cruciforms,

a thousand melodies of the Book of Genesis,

when Mankind still walked with God

and in the stories all the animals

knew the names of the Humans

and still felt like speaking,

unconstructed codices of languages buried

in the fleshy feathers

that swing through the sky in acrobatic whirlwinds

until at one precise moment

every creature on the Savannah is suddenly perfectly asleep,

as if by accident.

***

The cherubim  bubbled in blue moods,

baby peas popping in a poupourri of potted soil,

every prayer :  a crime scene nursery rhyme

sung into the Atoms of God,

combination locks of psychotic human biology,

miracles  arriving in the  blue palace of opiate flurries

where space and time knock on the Mirror

as if it was a door,

and the Moment of Birth

and the Instant of Death become incongruent

and cannot decide

how to live between the Wounds while still smiling

and how to tell the birds of the world

they are not really human until they have lived in the darkness

 of the Magistrate that knows no Math

but only sits in the silence

and the Furtive unfurling  Flagships of  An Archaeon of Heaven,

in the bedroom

aquarium where glass eyes of God  is a discotheque of whiskers

reflecting the mountaintop prayer shawl

as it was discovered by the Cat of Lost Nobility

*

And as if, at that precise moment, when the Cherubim

whisper:  a dish breaks.  A new dish.

 Nobody cares.  The light of the lost world,

where the dish has landed, is like the Moon beyond the Moon,

a piece of cake on a Dragon's Tongue

Or the camoflage of Otherworldly Others

who arrive from the Other Side bathed in Lithium,

telling tales of  how the Oracle looked deep in their eyes

and numbered the unfinished poems in the sequence

of polygons that

danced in the backs of their  heads,

as the light of the television

melted in the smile of white feathered Zeus,

Promethean ravens

flickering against the skin

as the actors on the other side of the screen

suddenly disappear on Chariot of Fire,

 and the room becomes a jeweled box

of ears that explode in slow motion

 too slow to hear, to anything save the silence itself

and deep in that night

the  remote control  is turning the universe off

whispering curses in the  middle of the night,

Olympian  stars turning over in the bowels of  sleep

as the fishlike beings painted by the Brain of the Forgotten Child

stand motionless

in the aquarium,

thrashing in silence, with Gods brewing

hurricanes inside the haunt of their Unknowable Eyes

***

At the edge of the sunbeam:  the tongue of the Sun

licks a whirlpool woman into curving her Ear

into Song Singing Songs,  in whose notes,

the Dog God wanders  across Galapagos Island.

 Until her heart broke into puzzles

of Darwinian remorse:

 the turtles were thinking as if they

might like to go to sleep in the blue velveteen starlight

a grand flight of the Archangels,  the  eyelids  of the humpback whale

bellowing into the breathlessness of finches

that now  speculate in chirps upon the birth of Mermaids in atomic

salinity, her

teardrops like a broom sweeping Darwin's fingernails

into the heartless grove,

where the Soap Opera  gurgles a hymnal of Orchids

beneath the wa wa wa waves

every moment  the Corpse of the Thunder Hunting Void

slips on lost Cinderallas in changeling Shekinah

where Fish scaled Seraphim, under Orpheus Sapphire

divide Infinity by Zero, opening the smile of the  Father

of Go Going Golden  Immaculate void, the Sunlight singing

the Last Fears of the First Funeral, a shark bone circulating

in the shattered eyes of the Orphan

 When, on  the other side of that When, the Witch brews

 a shark into sharklike sobbing, the laughter of Predators

quivering in  playing cards

down at the roots of the pyromaniac's fist

a catalog of  flamethrowing frown, thundering

with straightjackets at the top of the

Uncreated Ocean, the  blue sky  twists a prayer shawl

into an the unfinished wound of the Immortal Messiah

and scarlet petunias wraps themselves around the  wound of the

world, around,

in the blue dizzying black tide of  inhuman human whirlpools,

hurrikanes bury coconuts in the nude voodoo cocoon,  a

guru of Eleusius

whispering the Liplight of Sybils,

glossolalia of  Butterflies roaring a Manifesto

until on the waterfront

where they sell styrofoam cups

to starving children,

the Loveless Fisherman of the City begin to walk,

over there,  into the shelter

where the light is unbalanced, and no memory of God remains

and the bumblebees break into cold honey and

the murder scene of a jigsaw puzzles

at the edge of the world, near McDonalds

and the Mother's Eye  hovers,   a newborn face

etched in seashells catching unborn angels

in ribbons of black light that have  escaped the turtles eye

and burning wild  starlings of  torrential gothic froth,

 shimmying winds of the bellybutton of Godiva,

a fruit bowl opening into yawn of Tomorrow,

 endless anonymous beings

burning blue veins into the  twilight

of the Tortoise Shell glowing

like the lungs of Gilgamesh

***

the star, a magic mouth

exhaling Parrots

through the mirror of the soil

where Newton has rearranged the furniture

into a series of parallelograms

that have no thought

other than the thought

of why the parabolas

curl in the shade where the cats trace paths

into the night,

turning grey

at the first moment the sunlight

slips it's tongue into the edge of the ocean

to sizzle

with the fish, in an articulation of convergences

as above, so below,

they wrote in the sand

just before tripping into the Island

full of Pirates with precambrian smiles.

***

Antedeluvian Weirdos, running amok with

Godzilla, there on the floor

drunk in lichens, whirlwinds racing with the

sound of some new shadow

that lisps,

there in the footprints

of the Sphinx,

if that's what you call it.

*

A wandering eye, distributed in the Ions

has turned the Sky into the Casino of Thunder,

out on the edge of the Glass,

the mirror of the Sahara

an oasis of silence

a mesmer of archaeons,

where the Bedouin Nomads are racing into

the Light, their tapestries

painted with wild threads of coincidence,

waiting for Others to Discover

on some newly discovered day

when the Lemniscates whirl in undulating

counterpoint, the riddles coded inside the Trees

whose motion is slower than the

first thoughts of God,

and never arrive anywhere except where they are

least expected,

a surprise,

like a monkey discovered in the treetops

of some suburban generica.

*

It is in those unbalanced arpeggios of unfinished

sentences,

staccato phonemes launched at the beginning of time,

like Max Planck and Einstein

sailing into some world where nobody had heard

of Newton or Columbus,

and the light was the color of the sky in the year 1902.

***

In the mirror of the mirror

there is nothing to be seen at all,

just the curve of something

disappearing

into what?

A fiery fairy of  light lit glass, the color of the turtle's eye

where lines are frozen

in the ten million colors of hallucinatory

beings,

turtle toes

tap dancing on the rooftop,

where no Ocean remains except the gurgling of the drainpipes

as the pigeons

query the daylight,

blinking in rhythm to the oscillating furies

of that Greek Theatre that is nowhere and everywhere

at once,

a wild fluttering of wings into the ocean

the triple time smile

of the moon,

resting on the surface of the Lake

where an Old Man is sleeping

in a pile of beards

leftover from the Fourth of July,

a madness that the tarantulas

cannot begin to explain,

as they rush back to the edge of the river

in search of new theories

of the Dream Life of Dirt

***

Ludwig Wittgenstein,

the Deejay to the Mimes,

has written a poem on the top of

Semolina Pilchard's balding head,

as she arrives at the top of the Eiffel tower

disguised as herself,

a memory escaping from the Secret Compartment

in Descartes' kitchen,

there in that hotel

in Ulm,

at the same place where the Photons

assembled a paint by number

something

at the crib of Albert Einstein,

like a Sail that could catch photons

and lead them into some Undiscovered World,

full of boomerangs and broken symmetry,

the history of unborn beings

that speak through their hair

as they get stuck in a revolving door

and still remember nothing,

nothing,

except the way the glass was once

a pile of sand,

perhaps a mountain

in some Dragon's Eye,

the buried treasure of a Nightmare

that has not quite begun

but hesitates on the edge of the Skull

in weird penumbral syllogisms

***

The polarity of consciousness

is reversed.

A white zebra, a black gazelle,

the lion's eyes

rotate inward,

witnessing some strange world

growing in the garden buried in the

neural networks of it's most ancient

grandparents,

there, on the serengeti,

where the world has erupted into a congregation

of dream starved beings,

culled by the curves of the neck

of a rhinoceros racing towards the Castle

hidden inside the Boabob trees,

upside down,

the flags moving in the rhythm of the Starlight,

the perpetual motion

of the Still point whose energies

cannot be explained

by the Doctors, by the wild eyed Shamans

racing into the Upside Down Kingdom

where everything happens

the way they described in the center of the Stone,

a series of thoughts that have their

origin in the negative entropy of

an Apple falling off the tree

and landing in Sir Isaac Newton's stomach,

as seen on Television,

in the year that nobody could explain.

***

As the Circuitry of the world

develops like a sunburn

on the skin of some ancient Shaman

crawling through the city made of

Tinfoil,

the eyes of the Jaguar explode

ten thousand emeralds deep

in the furnace of unfinished sapphires,

where the white swan is whirling

to the rhythm of nothingness

explaining itself,

the Green Fuel of Tourists,

a strange parade that makes no sense

not even to the passengers

whose smiles eclipse the dream of the

monkey, trapping the whispers of the

world in the canopy that twitches

in the rhythm of the chiraco

born on the edge of the Sea

full of Ships that have sailed

into the sunlight full of gold and crimson whirls,

a sad memory

howling in the bones of the Sailors

as they slip over the Horizon

in candelabras of astonishment

***

In the Quark, there was a Giant of Infinite Dimensions,

on the same page where the Universe was writing it's recipe

for Curiousity,

note by note, giggling the way Mozart laughed

every evening when discovering the Secret Sounds

enveloping the willow trees at dusk,

when the rooftops were haunted by Astronauts

and all the remote controls of the City

were pointed towards the Face in the Bathroom Mirror,

everyone trying to change something

as the stars whirled around in the secret rhythm of the

Unknown Saints,

their footprints traced in meteors

that spun towards some unfinished temple

where the Greek Gods were hanging the Curtains

of a Theatre of Abandoned Souls,

Homer, Aeschylus, Ovid,

Dante drifting shoeless towards the Subterranean

path.

***

The Dinosaur Bird, an archaeopteryx of the broken centuries

has a secret nest

in the Casinos of Aldebaraan,

there where the universe has collapsed

in a heap of pillowing sublunar vortices,

revealing a duplicate Earth,

like the pincushion of Ishtar,

ten million angels

sweeping their feet across the night sky

upside down

as the centuries run rampant with ghosts

and other Philosophers

made unreal

by the descent of the Thunder

into an eardrum ten thousand light years wide,

placed where nobody could remember,

in the Sea of Galilee,

that day

***

an Imaginary world, slowly : the molecules of Gold,

painting themselves

like the Fingernails of Hera,

there on the Shores of the Here and Now,

a million Oscillations of Insanity

coalescing in a polka dot

the color of Manhattan on Leap Year in the Year that Never Happens,

but waits on the other side of the Waiting room door

like a Doctor out hunting peaches

in the Kuiper Belt,

where they sing of Moons

beyond moons,

footsteps dressed in red,

Jimi Hendrix gathering blue notes from a nest of Pterodactyls,

the Kingdom of Owls,

a question mark suspended in the television set

at just the moment

the lights go off

and one is left to decide

what to do next,

now that the programming has changed keys

and the Caduceus

is glowing at the Edge of the Yard,

a strange shadow

that races from the inside of the eye

to the edge of the known universe.

***

As the Universe downloads

itself

in infinite regress,

a series of blue eyes flickering inside a rhododendron,

at the top of the sky

where the ions are like flamethrowers in

the hands of a Komodo Dragon,

and the world has traced it's ancestry

back to a series of randomly mutating

punctuation marks

drifting from atom to atom on the surface

of the Precambrian Sea,

where they have landed

disguised as Parallelograms, parabolas,

a hemiquaver that will echo in the laughter of the Newborn

endlessly,

just as they described in the cartoon

that climbed out of the Cauldron

that very strange moment

in Liverpool, before Liverpool

was named.  Who Named it, they will

one day begin to inquire, from the night sky

as the constellations are gathering their Godlings,

every single eye

a point by point supernova,  shards of Stained Glass

in a Cathedral of Infinite Dimensions

***

A librarian on it's way into the labyrinth

has found the Dewey Decimal system was composed

by Salieri,

as he received transmissions from the Shew Stone

sleeping underneath the Tree that had Never Been Built,

there

where the carpenter ants have lifted their wings

into the night sky

under the auspices of some antedeluvian probability field

on its way through the Catacombs of Paris,

a Greek God sleeping in the same channel

as the Nightly News,

until the atmosphere is the color of a hippopamus tongue

and Nostradamus wanders through the night

on the street of the Ancient Comedie,

a magic scarab, the color of something that has never happened,

containing the sign language of Willow Trees

as they ignite in permutations of the

***

as winter developed an artificial eye

there, in the skyscrapers full of honeybee faced angels,

calculators

clicking semi random numbers (as if anything could be random

in a universe where (anything at all was happening at all, it cannot be)

and the Ghosts of Las Vegas began

hunting through the couch cushions looking for the Remote Control

that would get them a lifetime pass to the place on the Moon

where Charlie Manson's Mother is serving Tea

to Ulysses,

neither of whom can remember how they got there,

where the Stones taste like a Pie

forged in a Coliseum on Saturn,

just before the universe spun on it's axis

counterpositioning itself in the dreams of Pablo Picasso,

where the Bullseyes flower

like the wounds of some bright desert mandala

***

Across the rooftop,

a cloud is trying to decide

where to go.

There was a lion underneath this cloud,

where the apples

fell,

simple apostasies etching new mythologies

into the warm soil of Western Washington

when the children were balancing stones

in the green grass by the house with

an aquarium full of birds,

until the doorbell rang

and the cloud became a single drop of rain

falling as described by Isaac Newton

on Christmas Day, the day before he

left Oxford bathed in a series of conversations

with the Wanderer,

whose name remains un-named

*

The Moon of Shangri La,

an Ibis,

carrying an envelope into the world

of Unfinished Doorways,

out there where the salt marsh

is painted by alligators and oysters,

the wild harmonium swinging in the sunburnt sun

a vast echoic translation of something

that just never happens

but is sleeping in the reeds

like the action potential of some Methuselean Brain,

on the bottom of the floor

in a world of inconstant whispers

that cannot be contained in a book

***

Inside the fog of the sun,

a portrait of the queen

is

throwing tomatoes

at a wild fox racing through the door

of an abandoned country church,

just at the moment the Congregation

expected it would,

some 80 years ago,

as they were lip synching the words

of the Hymnal,

and the Priest began smiling in the same color

as the pulpit,

and the tall grass shivered to remember the world

that was happening in the Universe next door.

***

On the edge of that grasshoppers wing,

there is a strange  machine

as gold as golden apples

as gold as uranium as gold as hydrogen

setting in the Unfinished Sun,

where the Galleons are marching

through Columbus' delusions,

the Sybil of Genoa

her face, painted by smoke the wild fantasies

of stone throwing children

and the last words of a magician who did not seem

to be a magician at all,

but a Baker with a basket of pinecones

heading through the market

towards the place of the Unbroken Heart

***

In the theatre, at the moment of perfect silence

the Ambassador of God began channeling TS ELiot,

giving stage directions

to the ghost in the Green Room, just as

prophecied by the pawn shop Nostradamus

who knew how to read the Book that Cannot Be Read

the one

where the Wild Starlings

have traced an elliptical sway of wordless worlds,

a hurricane of wings beating the face of God into

unbalanced monstrosities

glimpsed by the rare magician

in the shadows of the Sistine Chapel,

where Michelangelo once bathed in the

Zero Gravity of an Unfinished Heaven

*

And in the Simplicity of that moment,

when the Starling's eyes rippled into Paintbrushes,

whirling diamond fevers across

the face of a Snow Leopard, every

one of the Actors assembled like magnets

around a poem of inconstant angels

that was growing it's way from the Serengeti

to Stratford Upon Avon,

where a strange girl was sleeping

inside a coconut beside a forgotten lagoon.

There, on Whitsuntide Tuesday,

when the dream of the starlings inverted,

a cascade of diabolic neurons

erupted into the Song of the Lily,

turning the greenhouse into a prison of Clocks

pausing at the Zenith of Converging Memories,

until that sudden Now,

when Lao Tzu knocks

on the Door in the Floor of the Chinese Forest

the Door  that Leads to the Nirvana that is not the Nirvana

 where the Buddha's skin still echos

with the echolocations of Bats trembling like

Mozart at the sound of the rain

inside the ear of a Dragonfly

***

White turquoise,

the teeth of the sky

exhaling the I Ching

hexagram by hexagram

in a sky above a whirlpool

where the cars are circling in slow motion

the event horizon of a normal day,

every thunderbolt

chasing the pulse of Brahma

into the bright soil full of words

that cannot be explained,

but race from root to root,

unburying the eggs

delusion after delusion,

as the eyes of the dragon assemble

cell by cell in that strange zone

where the light exits the eye

in perfect symmetry

cloaking itself in the face of a Stranger,

a vast sacred unknowing

that traces itself

through the city,

through the streets,

across the skyscrapers full of self assembling

exoskeletons,

illuminated monsters that curve around the night

sky

just as the Witches promised,

delivered from Babylon,

delivered into the Night Sky of Subtropical Eden,

across the canopic blossoms

of the Interconnected Cerebellum,

the circular net

connected by nothingness

save the first thoughts of God,

slipping like a swarm of Bats

into horizon

of the Eye,

whispering words that cannot be heard

to an ear that has not finished listening

***

In the theatre, at the moment of perfect silence

the Ambassador of God began channeling TS ELiot,

giving stage directions

to the ghost in the Green Room, just as

prophecied by the pawn shop Nostradamus

who knew how to read the Book that Cannot Be Read

the one

where the Wild Starlings

have traced an elliptical sway of wordless worlds,

a hurricane of wings beating the face of God into

unbalanced monstrosities

glimpsed by the rare magician

in the shadows of the Sistine Chapel,

where Michelangelo once bathed in the

Zero Gravity of an Unfinished Heaven

*

And in the Simplicity of that moment,

when the Starling's eyes rippled into Paintbrushes,

whirling diamond fevers across

the face of a Snow Leopard, every

one of the Actors assembled like magnets

around a poem of inconstant angels

that was growing it's way from the Serengeti

to Stratford Upon Avon,

where a strange girl was sleeping

inside a coconut beside a forgotten lagoon.

There, on Whitsuntide Tuesday,

when the dream of the starlings inverted,

a cascade of diabolic neurons

erupted into the Song of the Lily,

turning the greenhouse into a prison of Clocks

pausing at the Zenith of Converging Memories,

until that sudden Now,

when Lao Tzu knocks

on the Door in the Floor of the Chinese Forest

the Door  that Leads to the Nirvana that is not the Nirvana

 where the Buddha's skin still echos

with the echolocations of Bats trembling like

Mozart at the sound of the rain

inside the ear of a Dragonfly

***

At the end of June

a thimble full of the Rain that Cannot Sleep

began chasing the dream of a Walnut

through the city streets

laced with Paper Boats and Umbrellas that

know only the artwork of those whose weeping

cannot be explained

by the cookbook that keeps chanting the first name

of the Demi-Urge, thus

unburying the consciousness of

mysteriously mysterious unborn beings

that shimmer in the randomnicity of rainbows

only to appear,

in the corner of the eye,

suddenly --- weird Mothers of Pearl

that burst like Shakespeare into the Theatre Door

cloaked in the colors of the Constellations

footprints of the Feathered Serpent

drifting eye to eye down the centuries,

disguised as a typographical error

in a book that is written in a language

that cannot be read

by the Ordinary Eye

***

There was a syllable of the Thought

moving like a bioluminescent cloud

across the tastebuds and anvils

waiting for  Socrates Tongue to ignite

like Chinese fireworks in a Blackbirds Eye

ten trillion calls and responses

with some indescribable something lurking quietly

in the Battlefields of Shangri La.

The Universe murmured like Tolkien

distilling  cyclones of mystery

from the ghosts that sleep

in the wounded flesh of the Pear that Sings of the Tarantula,

there where the desert becomes a Castle

haunted by the freckles of James Dean.

How they float into the starlight,

like UFO's on their way into a Cathedral.

And in the day that Socrates stood,

his eyes scanning Athens

across the temples, the gossips of the

Parthenon chuckling  Dogs,

superstitions flooded the furnace

with whirlwinds of Memory that would last until the

Color Blue boiled Shinto - Tahitian prayers

as Wine Dark Sea crashed into the purple hydrogen.

Socrates, clutching  his make believe crown,

whispered  a series of  startling neologisms,

watching the dolphins walk out of the Sea

and slip like Greek Comedians into the Alleys of Athens

where the world as quiet as Mother Theresa's breath

and all the creatures speak One Undivided Language,

a language of hydrogen,

a language of nitrogen,

a strange song bellowing in the eyelids of the Confucius,

the Smithy of the Pleiades

bathed in the flame of the Star

that rises from the Soil,

into the Night, unknown.

***

MC Escher,

who has eyelids like the fingerprint of Dostoyevsky

one moment after bursting into Purple Ink

begins

dividing by Zero, that day by the Machine

made out of the Daydreams of Voodoo Priestess.

It was under such auspicious

filtering of the blue light from the green light,

the yellow light escaping the redness of her Mouth

that Godlike beings

disguised as styrofoam cups drifted around

in perfect synchronicity

into the still point of endless stupidity,

the geometry of

quasicrystals nurturing the tetragammatron

in the haunted furls of the vast Tethys sea,

where every anemone sings an unfinished song,

teaching the coral reefs how to bark like the

wolves of the sky

just as they did in the day

before they were ever imagined

and some weird,

Event --- ten trillion light years wide,

like the mirror image of a mirror image

opened it's skull into a thousand

paradoxes that could not be paradoxes at all,

but began to hypnotize

the edge of spacetime

into a single  crystal ball that sways

in the fingertips of a Pawn Shop gypsy,

there, on the other side of the Forest,

where not even the trees can escape,

but grow, like the fingernails of

Aphrodite,

until nothing but aquamarine poesy remains

and the hearts of the Chimpanzees

slide into the distance,

leaving a broken mirror to dance

with Tesla in the Tunguskan Sun.

***

an Umpire's heart is a trampoline of Stone

clutching the Code of Hammurabi

into pinball zig zags of  Abracadabra in the Mood ring

that whirls

down dawn's doomed dunes,

cloaked in the whispers of

King Faced pigeons

and jigsaw puzzles sprinkled into unfinished tears of

the weeds, where the stoplights

haunt the jut jawed river of Laughing Tigers

roaring Argonauts through the turgid rudeness of Apparitions

whose thirst that growls in the asphalt

like some nest of Hungry Ghosts

whose bones are fishing nets of electromagnetic

Theatre, their fingers plucking apricots

from the Daylight with a Single  Unfinished Yawn

racing from Lung to Lung in the Circus Birth

of the Next All New,  Never Seen Ever Anywhere Sky

a paint by number rerun of Genesis,

designed by some Desert prophets

honeycombed hindbrain

when the locusts were drifting on the Sumerian Wind,

spinning Shadowy Urchins against the knock of the  Sundial

where the laughter of grapes broods in blooms

of Uranium that dreams of God Hooved Horses

racing into the Butterfly Cerebellum

***

a Baby clown, bullseye of sadness

made of rubbery nothings

burst down the highway of Columbus purple tongue

seeking the Convenience Store full of Made in China Americans

when suddenly

twelve partially hydrogenated Zombi Argonauts

chasing their skin into the flesh of Jerry Springer's eyeless w****s

shimmered in the cold light of polyurethane coconuts

and ten thousand fluorescent birdlike reptiles

trapped behind the counters painted in Zoroastrian graffiti

that reminds the old man

of the strange Thunders that boiled in the Soil

of  the war torn belly of ancient France,

during the resurrection of Marat Sade

when everything else made sense of senselessness

and the Ghosts of the Apostles slipped like bedsheets

around the gravestones of the Judge

haunting the Past and Future

with the Mysterious Unknowable delicacies,

books that could never be published

Labyrinths of Immaculate Indecision

Horse drawn carriages escaping from their skin

into streets that sing with

pearls of bright red emptiness.

***

The light bulbs do not remember your Mothers face, do they?

Those priestly eyes, like torches

burning in the darkness of a library where the books

have leapt from the shelves

like salmon hearted vagabonds

seeking some new ocean to find their radioactive pillow,

burning orphans trapped in a

a phantomesque maternity ward on the edge of the Human Heart

draped in  blood fueled curtains

and flags like the hair of Unborn Queens

wild blue bougainvillea of the cemetery rainbow

sipping the Laughter of  Jesuit Priests, ear by ear

who have raced around the city, cursing the pagan insanity

of the ghostlike Coliseum

where the Lion sleeps in the blue bath

of the Sky at the moment of crystallized  noon,

buried in the consciousness of the  Sphinx of the Zenith

twelve pyramids turning into the curve of Astronomical Silence

when all parallel lines converge

and eye by eye, the crossword puzzles

ignite with the sibilant iridescence of

that  autistic madwoman's

unburied tongue,

in Manhattan where the Ghosts ride sunbeams

into Samsara

***

Then,

the Waiter pauses in a sudden silent whirl ---

the moment of kinetic eloquence,

there --- where the currents of the room :

twelve wine glasses burst into Mozart's capillaries,

vegetables growing from the spinning plate

into the ligaments of a Green Man

painted on the ceiling:

a snatch of conversation about the Wedding

that begins running backwards,

and the Woman's Nightshade

slips into beads of Vampirical Rain

on the bottomless floor,

breaking the heart of every Zeus like Being

into a thousand jaguars whose smile

is reflected just on the other side of the Universe,

where the Laws of Supersymmetry

demonstrate that God's lies

have gone into fractals of impermanence and  the

Supernova of Shakespeare's wild eyed phantasm

at the moment the Buddha of the Buddhas

that are not Buddhas

at all

chose Salmon over Filet Mignon,

and the color of the light changes tempo

splashing down in aquamarine ambers  and

teleportations of Thought Geese into wild

tapestries of golden maroon onomatopoeia,

when the filaments of the light bulb are quivering

with ten trillion  penumbral monstrosities,

tongue twisters that slip from eye to eye

like a strange salad that has no beginning or end

staring up from the plate into the vast madness of your

Grandmother's cheekbones,  the lines of her face

spinning puppet strings around the preternatural void

just as the treetops tremble into the Nirvana

of a River that discos with the lost thoughts

of Antelope eyed memories

***

On the spine of the golden tree,

something buried a polyhedron of solitude,

stonelike, tripping with dragonfly eyes

and other knickknacks

of the Otherworld,

and for many long years, life happened in slow motion,

as if

there was some universe swallowing

another universe

in the dark light of that angelic skin,

just in carouselambras of dizzying blurs

spinning around a dark flowery mouth

thrumming with the hint of an unbearable smile

burning,  the eyes of a child collecting dust in the windowpane

where nothing but light beams and stained glass angels

know how to pass, through the blueness

the Garden of Gethsemane,

into the Oasis of Post Imaginary Beings

who pass,

Roman Soldiers lost

in the Palace of Motion,

balancing still points  in Cycles

of light and dark

and the darkness that floods

the sky with legends

of bone thirsty soil

***

A nomad, on the edge of the Human Dream

steps through a revolving door into the street

where the people

cannot see anything at all, except the stories

of ten million years of evolution

writhing in the laugh lines

bounding across the skin in a vineyard of freckles,

circling the nose

washing across the face in waves of transubstantiating

perfume,

the pheremones of peacocks rippling in the open

pores

every atom of the human body is a wishing well

full of ten trillion silent frogs

darkness at the bottom of the well, containing the hieroglyphics

of the Wild Man who

having escaped the Labyrinth of the Island of Greece,

have wound up hypnotized,

where the Ark of the Covenant is singing

as a Bedouin

angel listens through the sound

of something sleeping in the silence

where the roots of heaven have dissolved into

capillaries that burn with the mysteries

of Inverted Heavens,

at the outermost edge of the

uncreated wound.

And on that Street, the Citizens have assembled in a congregation

around a single blade of grass

leaping across the Manhattan Skyline like the ghost of

Edgar Allen Poe,

tripping in shoes that were designed by a cobbler

in Baltimore

late one night when the stars were like nails

falling through the sky

in patterns of non random significance

and Edgar Allen Poe

was thinking of the Day he stood at the edge of the City

dividing the Universe by Zero,

his watch spinning backwards

as the tops of the buildings curved

into the belly of a dragon.

and the blade of the grass

disappeared like a tongue

back into a philosopher's mouth.

***

The God of Godless Gods

crawls backward through the suburbs,

there where the Knick Knacks

are waiting like some exotic carousel

of forgotten beings,

every stone eye, like a telescope

that magnifies the presence of the Inorganic Dream,

the Ghost that is not a Ghost,

the Ghost that remains

after the Humans have fled into the entropy,

golden red blue

like trout scales stuck on the foot,

one day while walking by the pond where the lost cats

are remembering the lineage of Supernatural entities

who created the Suburbs

out of the blueprints they discovered

in the depths of the Transcendental brain

which are draped in the sky

like constellations without name,

every curve of the line,  like an eyelash balanced

in the trigonometry of the Archaeons.

*

In the still point of this mystery,

as the face of the One God begins to arrive

in shades of pointillism and entropy,

the word of the world

blooms in harmonic fugues, the strange

counterpoint of a Being the Light

has not yet discovered,

on the edge of the wave

on the edge of the void

on the edge of the dark

and the twilight of the endless salvation

***

Kali Yuga Night,

ten trillion butterfly Neurons

bouncing across the horizon

in twitches of the Eldritch Wisdom,

a coiled synergy of the Serpent

unleashed between the phosphorous

of that face

and the rotating hearth, a wild

arboretum of fire,

the ghosts of iridescent languages

rising on the rainbow

like the words of Moses racing from desert to desert

as if to discover some new

law that will one day solve everything

once and for all,

there when the wind turns backwards

along the unkept garden,

and the thieves are like fruit

racing from mouth to mouth,

stealing some Kingdom of it's Jewels

eye after eye a series of blindnesses

that contain the promises of Sybils,

the heat fields of ancient Argonauts,

the worldless worlds

of the Unborn,

hanging in the sliver of a smile,

like an unfinished cloud

there above the City where Nothing Ever Happens.

***

Green curls of bloody eyes

balanced in the wavelike somethings crashing

around the Furnace of the Vulcan

where an anvil glows with the smile of a shark,

in the sky

as Prometheus throws meteors into the face of the

crowd that has assembled

under the auspices of a festival without name,

just the slow sudden convergence

of an unfinished world

where the Trees are planning to Invade the Lungs

breath by breath,

conversions of the sunlight

unbalanced in the golden fire of the chromosome that leapt

from eye to eye

in the day before the Universe was born,

and the name of _____ was unknown to the being known as the _____,

and whirlwinds of memory

churned in the star grape thunderbolt

shimmering in the place beyond place

the eye of sightless seeing,

the furious curiosity of the Unborn,

the Born, and the Dying

a namelessness naming it's children

as if to comfort them between pauses,

when the oscillations sound like an eyelid

blinking off and on,

perfect silence of a Thief.

***

The alchemists spine is broiling

with leprechauns.

Ten thousand wild winds escaping the Kundalini,

there where the Eye of Vishnu

is seeking itself in the depths of the bathroom mirror,

wondering when the world began

and how Vishnu wound up as Vishnu,

and the eyelids of Braham go flapping against the darkness

strange bats

like purses of echolocating songs

finding themselves lost in the sky

above a concert

somewhere in middle america,

the music has driven the dragonflys

into the darkness of some faraway night,

perhaps Fiji, Tahiti,

or a convenience store where the cashiers

are planning to escape

into a cellar full of whiskey soaked watermelons,

and all they can sing is the backward masked songs

of some troubador trapped

between two mirrors, where they say

Joan of Arc is balancing teacups

on Channel 99.

***

ghostlike hysteria.   The city, she said:

is a mausoleum made of Fast Food and Beer Faced

women praying to the Mantis, on the dull edge of Night.

a white wall weeping alphabets.  The Corrosion of Spirit.

A cannonball fell into the wishing well.  It was disguised

as the heart of a Dog.

The Nun, her dark eyes throbbing

with broken glass:

quoted the frog of frogless demigods.

The yellow witch twitched taut, an Autumnal Knot ripped

into threads of instantaneous insanity,

perfumes strangers stunned by the sound of the voice of

her familiar ( a Siamese Someone of endless senseless intensity)

lilting.   The knight

warped in a sullen meow around the Sinews

of a bird, wingless on the whisper edge of the wishing well,

where the black hole licks Saturnalian steel

into twenty thousand shades of periwinkle paralysis.

The night is a blood fueled clock.  Trapping broken

angels in pheremones and tar.  A sinister laugh

that echoes into the grass fueled  jazz of  bop faced grasshoppers

igniting on the edge of the front yard

in simultaneous abandon, the Saints of the Cataclysm

mindlessly repeating Leonard Cohen in footsteps of rain colored

silence

and a bar room full of drunken  Tibetan Motorcycle Thieves,

praying to the Judge in the Valley of Wild Parabolas

until the lights go out

and the constellation Leo

pounces on your reptilian hindbrain,

taking the darkness by it's Illumination of  Infinite Subterfuge

revealing a Lion's Face in every Sunflower,

a Temple that opens like the  Aztec Virgins

heart, straight into Beginning of Time at the End of Time

where the Game Show is a Time Machine and Pentagon Cathedral

spontaneously erupting from fingernail to fingernail

in a rhyme scheme of the Dalai Lama and his

congregation of Clock Eyed Argonauts

exuding a  corpuscular phalanx of the Luciferian Highway  

where the Yahweh of Yahwehs

flutter in the grasshoppers wings, spinning in triple time

around the sweat glands of Newspaper Faced Mannequins

all while turning the Lost Eyes of Milarepa

into a meadow blooming with the dream umbrellas

the howling Poets, their hearts full of Gasoline Rainbows

boiling a  ballad of  undiscovered madness

and the Eyes of the Queen, murdered by

the Ghost suddenly erupts in the  white paint of star gathering angels

and the eyes

disappear  into nothingness

and the Mother of the Mother of the Mother of the

God that does not yet exist

sings a Bird through the window, where the crucifixion is

happening, ten trillion Golgothas per hour

as She remembers her name  racing into the prism

the knights walking backwards

as the  paranoia as rich as the Halloween fog

full of newborn faces splitting into rainbows

spiraling around,

a UFO,

like a polka dot,

like a stairwell that reaches

into the bottom of the Universal Skull,

the wishing well

of unfathomable complexity,

the first here and now

which is the next here and now

which is the last here and now

a manifestation of

Infinite Silence,

three waves colliding at the tip

of a Dragonfly Eye

***

Uncertainty is a cascade of inescapable premonitions,

the Sailors and ballerinas

draping themselves on the Sea,

wild clouds painted in radioactive contagions,

Said Madame Curie,

glowing by the Fire in Cafe Procope,

on the street of the Ancient Comedie,

just at the moment Voltaire

fled from himself into the furnace

and woke up clad in ashes

stained with broken glass, there in Cemetiere Pere Le Chaise

mantras of Arthur Rimbaud rippling in the ground

Arthur Rimbaud --- who said nothing at all,

but hung from the ceiling

in carnivals of fire,

until Semolina Pilchard stood at the edge of the

baseball diamond,

her heart an empty field,

tracing fingerprints around the crime scene

of that Undiscovered Eden,

as if to remind the Cherubim

they are not merely Cherubim,

but Temples of the Unbroken Heart pulsing with

a deathless Now.

***

a dozen pathologies

behind every twitching eyelid,

from Low Earth Orbit

they are calculating the Cosine

of a particular phantasmagoria,

the escape of the Actress

through the Maternity Ward inside the television,

the one Made in Hollywood,

1976,

by the actors who were not actors,

after the last thoughts of Eisenhower

were racing through the Theatre

circling the sky

in parallelograms of probability fields,

spinning the strange language

out from the eyes of Birds

who know everything, who reveal nothing

save the cawing of the night

and the fluttering of some strange wing

across an amphitheatre where assembled

the gods sit,

an audience of light starved entities

smiling in pastels

the flickering embers of their lost divinity

rotating above the Stage

like a newborn face discovered in a kaleidoscope

the kaleidoscope that rests

in the optic chiasm

where the Alebaraan is clutching

a bouquet of wild flowers

to remember way

the galaxy once swarmed

around

a single inhuman eye

***

in the snowflake, there is a Queen of wickedly

hypnotic commandments,

her face a tapestry of light and shade

woven by those gathered on the edge of the Sea,

ten million years ago,

bathing the world in a perfume of salt reeds

and sandpipers,

until the sky broke open in a cascade

of Ions racing towards the birth scene

in a carriage of bioluminescent clouds

until at the top of the mountains

the clouds begin to discover

the mountaintop is charged with blue phantoms,

the strange hands of mountaintop beings

pursed like the throats of disbelieving birds

around what memories the moon

reveals,

a discotheque of unfinished angelic ennervations,

and the Snowflake becomes a Guest

on the Roof of the Riverside Hotel,

where the pine trees are trumpeting the

descent of the Swan

through a circus of chemical flames,

a stone

suddenly falls

and splashes

and the philosophers disappear

into a world

of Billboards.

***

in the charcoal belly of the haunt

the deerlike beings trace

strange footsteps, scintillating

ballets of astonishment as the timber of the night

twitches

according to the choreography of the

architect

who remains, like an Orphan

on the other side of the door,

remembering nothing except the face

that has never been seen

but that slips through the human brain

in glissandoes of glossolalia

the the movements of dopamine

down the celestial corridor,

where one time, in the Kentucky Riverside

a dragonfly began whispering

until the wind agreed.

***

A howling gasp

gathering it's entities

on the edge of a razor

where the crucifix

and the skyscraper

balance in poetry

that nobody can remember,

just the open plains of God

where a celestial

arch

bridges the moment of birth

and the paradox of death

in carriages that race around circles

that are not circles at all,

but unfold in carouselambras of light

as if every photon was a dancing lesson

from some disincarnate entity

186,282 miles away,

supraconscious

like a Lady Bug

inside a pinecone at the edge of the

Suburban Nirvana

where the curb is tracing exotic

paths

through the Universe that does not understand itself

***

in the snowflake, there is a Queen of wickedly

hypnotic commandments,

her face a tapestry of light and shade

woven by those gathered on the edge of the Sea,

ten million years ago,

bathing the world in a perfume of salt reeds

and sandpipers,

until the sky broke open in a cascade

of Ions racing towards the birth scene

in a carriage of bioluminescent clouds

until at the top of the mountains

the clouds begin to discover

the mountaintop is charged with blue phantoms,

the strange hands of mountaintop beings

pursed like the throats of disbelieving birds

around what memories the moon

reveals,

a discotheque of unfinished angelic ennervations,

and the Snowflake becomes a Guest

on the Roof of the Riverside Hotel,

where the pine trees are trumpeting the

descent of the Swan

through a circus of chemical flames,

a stone

suddenly falls

and splashes

and the philosophers disappear

into a world

of Billboards.

***

in the charcoal belly of the haunt

the deerlike beings trace

strange footsteps, scintillating

ballets of astonishment as the timber of the night

twitches

according to the choreography of the

architect

who remains, like an Orphan

on the other side of the door,

remembering nothing except the face

that has never been seen

but that slips through the human brain

in glissandoes of glossolalia

the the movements of dopamine

down the celestial corridor,

where one time, in the Kentucky Riverside

a dragonfly began whispering

until the wind agreed.

***

A howling gasp

gathering it's entities

on the edge of a razor

where the crucifix

and the skyscraper

balance in poetry

that nobody can remember,

just the open plains of God

where a celestial

arch

bridges the moment of birth

and the paradox of death

in carriages that race around circles

that are not circles at all,

but unfold in carouselambras of light

as if every photon was a dancing lesson

from some disincarnate entity

186,282 miles away,

supraconscious

like a Lady Bug

inside a pinecone at the edge of the

Suburban Nirvana

where the curb is tracing exotic

paths

through the Universe that does not understand itself

***

Thelonius Monk,

a jewel in the crown of Negative Entropy

is racing around the moon

on a Slice of Bread,

when suddenly the door opens

and from the belly of the moon,

a Bluebird appears

wearing a yellow mustache

and improvising the madness

of Godot.

On the Sea of Tranquility,

there are Two Famous Directors

who are plotting to create

a Sonnet that will turn the Universe Inside Out

until nothing remains

but a series of hawaiian vowels,

the language of the blue world

that the moon has not been able to explain,

but that is nursed in whiskey

and broken guitars

where the people from the pawn shop

are walking away,

their smiles uncontained,

shaped like the crescent moon

of Saturn.

***

in the cartoon that raced through the noon day sky

---  erupting into the Godhead of Hallucinations

the Face  descended in wisps of opalescent binaries

underneath a network

of stars howling

for the world to begin again,

night after night,

when the coliseum has fallen asleep

and the Robots Hearted Lions

began theorizing about the Motives

of  the Spiritualists

whose names remain,

like the footprints of the tarantulas

dizzying in the desert sand,

where the Cartoons racing

through beads of glass

remembering Socrates Fist,

and the mirror of hallucinatory neologisms,

Genies of the Subterranean Celestial,

a Memory  of Forgotten Imagination

that rises from the skin

in porous membranes

cross pollination the action Potential of Madmen

with the Eyes of World Drunk Angels

gathering prophecies from across the Strange Greek Fever and

Wine dark Sea,

Greek fires writhing in the shadows on the ground,

like the darkness of the Poem

that teaches  the tongue to move

above the sky around flightless elementals

where there is not a trace of

of the Ordinary World

***

the throne

develops in the probability fields

of mice. litter whirling on the 32nd street.

Terminal velocity of Archangels

the laughter of a one eyed Greek hermaphrodite

as She dusts the glass window

after a chess game ends

and the winds of Manhattan

woosh in,

reminding her of the day She stood

at Delphi,

sulfurous winds churning through her nostrils

as the pelicans clapped

their smiles like Icarus,

off in the distance,

where the world is both ending and beginning simultaneously,

at different speeds,

because light

is actually a conscious variable,

turning rain into grapes

and grapes into something

while introducing the Vintner to a tribe of dust motes

assembling

like the fingernails of the golem

over the chessboard,

there,

where Grand Central Station's doors

are whirling in cosmological fury

like the eyelids of some clockwork leviathan

self assembling in the depths

of some unfinished brain,

where the fractals are running races

marathons of complexity,

crystalline exoskeletons of a fledgling something

that remains sleeping in the human brain

anonymous

un-named

until the Moment

***

A

whisper of the collective megagod,

turning cartwheels through it's own shadow,

like it's stitching

a quilt of timepieces that will one day

defy

Max Planck and Einstein and rise

into the Swiss village

singing an Ode to the Paranoia

of Mountaineers,

those who have risen into the sky

like snowflakes coming unbalanced

in the zero gravity of the Holy Imagination,

a convergence point,

multiple variables waltzing through the ionosphere

reminding James Joyce and Freud

of Zurich, 1927,

the moment when the Bells of the Cathedral

rang,

synchrony

of instantaneous comprehension of the Here and Now,

a white stag bellowing in the moonbeams

on the edge of a cliff

that trembles with the footsteps

of Elves,

until the starlight rises

on  the horizon

like the Sheet Music of Heaven

writing itself

as far as the eye can see,

in everything

***

Coiled in the atoms

of hydrogen,

there is a Las Vegas full of Dragonflies

howling portents

above the eye that sleeps in the soil

like a coral reef

hidden in the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History,

there in the shadows

where the docents are gossiping

about the way Vanna White's fingers

are probably like King Midas

and can never play scrabble

without winning or losing,

and read everything in the braille

that was discovered by Columbus

in the depths of a Tipi,

one night when the Beltane Fires

were weaving a curtain of atmospheres,

like the ashes of the promethean ghost

rising through the night in search of a place

to descend,

pillows of consciousness assembling the speech

of ravens

of antelopes,

the Bison whose eyes are like nuggets of gold,

on the edge of the Lake

where the reeds sway like the serpent

and the serpent revolves

around the still point of

Nitrogen,

gambling in the furnace of the Unimagined World

***

In the flooded cemetery

the grasshopper is laughing,

the lace curtains

of that  green hell

opening into a muddy living room dressed

in wild tapestries and the unfinished paintings

of  wood flesh

and the animalian queens

whose jeweles are composed in the shimmering dust

and meltdown rhythms of  the chemical light

tracing electromagnetic candelabras

around the wounded smiles

of carpenter ants

that travels from the center of the earth

to the edge of the Stars,

waiting to dash themselves into the first echoing antechambers

of the Andromedan Nightmare,

to discover why the Dryads are sleeping,

there, where mephistophelean

witnesses

have landed on the shore, and a century of  burnt rocks

smolder

with the breath scent of sea lions

and the fingertips of the Ocean,

play  the name of God on the edge of the human piano

over and Over,

a celestial song

that has no name

and that cannot be heard

and that rhymes only with itself,

like a fable

trapped in the cup of the skin of a grape

as it falls from the Tree made of Ink

and splashes

into the eye of the Garden

the Garden whose name also

is not known to Humanity

and has never been discovered

but moves in the night,

lost in the pause

between a Century of Indeterminate voids.

****

Beauty of the World,

a racing thread of superstitions that reveal

the twirl of an undiscovered flag

in the cheekbone at the moment that the Sun Sets

and the Earth escapes it's Moorings.

The sun, that Solar Apparition ---

dives into the stomach of the night,

revealing the smile of a Cat on the edge of the tall grass

that flickers like Janis Joplin's nightstand

and the first poems of aphids

echo the  gasps of those gathered on the tops of the Skyscrapers,

the centurion lost in the applause

of their own memories reverberates in constant unison to

the Sound of Icarus and Daedelus

dialoguing the pythagorean ascent

upon the edge of the Sea, the phosphorescent fire

burning the wings of the Gulls

as the Gulls laugh and dive, into that space where the catfish

are swimming into the Unsudden Nirvana

full of Buddhaless Buddhas seeking Buddhaless Buddhas

that realize nothing but the world

of Ordinary Beings,

suspended  in the Museum of the Here and Now

like the daydreams of Henri Matisse

on the edge of the sky,

between parenthesis.

***

At  Alpha,

an indelible infrared ecstasy of orange throated wildflowers

howling penumbras of the unfinished

sunlight

birds without eyes slipping through the oxygen tinted sky

until an ultraviolet ember, the Omega of the Universe

coils on the other side of the cheekbone,

a memory of the cross pollination

of every past and futurer Holiness

evolving through the

Mystery of Intangible Uncertainties

where the Unborn Beings

have  arrived with faces like broken clocks

and assembled in the iron heart of the  ocean

where nothing remains

but the Sailors umbrella,

after the waterfront has been emptied of Strangers

and the carouselambra of infinity

descends in plumes of unfinished words,

prayers and glossolalia

galloping like Salvador Dali into the Sahara,  a confession of wisdom

in the mirror of the Sea that reveals the blueprints of the Sky

just as Ezekiel remembered

in the twilight when he stood, chanting exotic algorithms

as the locusts swarmed in Signals,

singing the dream of the orphans of Aldebaraan.

***

poltergeist, when the air is calm

and the word becomes a refugee

surrounded by the strange Ones,

whose eyes seem like a cross

between Easter Eggs and Televisions,

containing the ten trillion impulses

of the deep sea anemone

whose Grandfather Enzymes

once circled the sky in daisy chains of coincidence

as storm gods

nested in the Northern Lights, that strange

magic carpet that tickles the belly of the Genie

as if it was an adamantine tongue,

the birth of tragedy in a snowflake

on it's way into the walrus eye,

when a million comedies converge in a single instantaneous

joke repeated from Star to Star,

christmas garland rippling with the prayers

of newborn children,

a celebration of the stars

that know nothing

***

In the tornado of the breakfast table,

there is a series of burnt memories,

like the day the toast slipped into the space

between the refrigerator

and the sink,

and the day seemed perfectly ruined,

as if the Gypsies Circus had refused to go to town,

but hovered on the edge of the Asylum,

singing to the peonies

who cannot hear anything save the language

of God arriving

through the emptiness of the world,

when the streetlights turn

ultraviolet and flicker in patterns and paradigms

around a high school stadium

where the Greeks have assembled a Kite

and are preparing to fly the world

into a dizzying blur of parallax, like the moment

Peter looked into the eyes of the Messiah

and took one step out of the boat

and slipped into the reef, laughing,

and discovered

at the bottom of the sea,

a human ear

trembling like a flower of Gethsemane.

***

A twilit trapezium

turning through the eyes of the blackbird

on the edge of a porch

painted yellow with the footsteps of chrysanthemums

that have slipped through the door

of the Holy Imagination

and landed like playing cards in a game

the bumblebees have rigged

so that only the weathervane can win,

spinning in the wind

as if it was a fingerprint of the Storm God,

a tarantula

waltzing through the green earth,

a million mustaches sliding around in the soil,

where the leaves and the pinecones

are waiting like Priests

for the congregation to arrive,

as the Winter Solstice spins on the horizon

where the Centurions are waiting like

the Guardians of some Undiscovered Country,

in costumes that are patterned like the blueprints

of an Exoskeleton that cannot be bought

but grows on the other side of the World,

in polyhedrons of incalculable

paradox

***

A single UFO,

hidden on the edge of the sidewalk

remains laughing at the instant of sunrise

until the color blue

has harmonized the sunflowers

into believing in human beings

and the choreography of church bound

beings who are

dancing like Methuselah

into a place that reminds the Hierophant

of the Temple they saw

inside their eyes,

that day when Aristotle stepped into the cemetery

laughing,

took the day by surprise,

carrying a basket of fish that reminded those present

of a scene from Aesop's Fable,

and the night dissolved into a series of exits ---

through the cemetery,

into the suburbs,

across the bridged river,

where the billboards are growing in Bonfires of Sanity,

and the UFO waits,

containing the Argonauts of the Perpetual Daydream,

their fists full of voodoo,

their eyes like Cages of Pterodactyls

spinning into the grass

where the  Aquamarine Scarab is using ESP

to contact the Sphinx

***

mathematical axioms of bright blue fire,

they begin

on the top of the Empire State Building

and swing like the last thoughts of King Kong

down across the world,

just as the Philosophers once predicted,

in Athens when the Moon

was like a Comitragic Witness,

a sad actor that had no lines

but wandered the sky

quoting poets struck into language

by the strange articulation of seabirds

whose memory is not of the Earth

or the Sky

but of some Otherworldly emanation coded

by the volcanoes of Pompeii.

And when those ancient textbooks appear:

the mouth of the Rhododendron

churning with thirst of a difference engine,

the stones

a magic abacus,

the edge of the pond where the winds whisper abracadabra

to nobody at all,

reminding the first Beings that fall

out of the trees and land

in some Mirage made of telekinetic anthropoids,

fingerprints full of an Algebra

the detectives can never explain.

At the point when the Summit of the Indivisible fractal

is howling with a substrata of disincarnate bodhissattvas

and the carpenter ant lifts it's antennae

into the sky,

the moon shifts like a pregnant belly

and the silence grows drunk

with silence,

and the soil begins it's Indeterminate

Impersonations of

***

the monologue of the Sparrow began

in the static on a television set ---

where the darkness was full of broken faces,

a thousand unborn beings -- photon by  photon

some assembly required ---

taking communion on their way

through a juxtaposition of nightmares,

while prayers stirred  in the Teacup on

the Other Side of the World,

where --- on a normal day --- three Electricians were

praying for the rain to stop

praying for the laws of physics

to remain the same

as their spirits wandered the skies of Morocco,

their eyelids full of Bedouin Nomads

whose flesh is charged with the

wisdom of Absinthe,  out in the world of abstraction

where the fluorescent eyes burn

the way the dust burns

 and the nostrils surge, membranes

of synergy

until the brain itself

is a museum of strange birds lit

by the light that lives in human flesh

***

It's 105 degrees outside.  I am walking to the library in apparitional synergies of Christopher Columbus.   The air is thick and rich and  smells like a cross between a Greasy Fast Food Hamburger and Carbon Monoxide.  On the sidewalk there are unearthly objects.  Cyclop eyes. Medusa hairnets.  The birthmarks of Angels.  Zeus' footprints.  They are like the relics from the Cartoon of Infinity, as it arrives by the Powers of Capitalism Vested in The Them.  It seems I  have recently been released from the Insane Asylum.  The Doctors have discovered I am a hallucination controllable by Seroquel and the Universal Remote Control.   Is this serious? I see a man in a Lamborghini driving towards an empty country church.  He is wearing a barbed wire crown.  My shoes feel like rubber tarantulas.  Two blocks down there is the local homeless man, standing in the morning light laughing and holding his pants up while pointing at a billboard.  There is broken glass everywhere.  I begin to suspect this planet was designed by King Midas.  An eighteen wheeler passes by.  Being in it's headlights is like being a barbecued wildebeast writhing in Godzilla's fanged jaws.  Beads of sweat run down my face and I suddenly wonder if it is raining.  It is not raining.  I wonder if the truck driver thinks I am crying.  A tear falls down my cheek into the cemetery of everywhere. There are dozens of strange lights in the sky.   They seem like stars, but they might be satellites. Or UFO's.  Or SWAT Team Drones.  Chinese Angels coming unburied in the Suburban American Spiritual Jetstream. I hear something whisper from the drainage ditch.  Quotations from the Book of Ezekiel are swirling in my mind.  Also, thoughts of Chzberger Cats eating the Darth Vader Rockefellers.   I feel like I am being followed.  I turn around, trying not to startle the people who may be following me.   Behind me is a strange woman.  She is carrying a baby.  As I turn around, I can see the baby's face.  It looks like Marlon Brando.  The library doors swing open and I am sucked inside by the neon lights and the air conditioning.   Inside the library it is like a discotheque.  All the crazy people have a different book.  And they are dancing to their books.  I see a man that looks like Yul Brynner.  He is waltzing to "A Thousand and One Arabian Nights".  He smiles.  I can hear Scheherezade laughing from behind ten worlds painted in electrolytic glass.  Another woman is Dancing to Sylvia Plath. She sways slowly, her feet are hoofs.  Above her head there is a bioluminescent dragonfly.  The library suddenly seems like a Time Machine.  Through the doors comes an EMS Team.  They are bringing the Homeless Man into the Library.  They bring him straight to the Cookbook Section and they start screaming at him to tell them everything he knows.   The homeless man rips off his face, revealing he is really a Horseshoe Crab named Ulysses.  A book falls from the Shelf.  It is "The Last Thoughts of Charlie Chaplin" ... the library suddenly spins on the Z Axis and we are now back in Atlantis, where the streets are paved in Electromagnetic Turntables.  They spin in ten million polarities, as the Dolphin Queen circles the sky in a chariot made of Sapphires and Rubies.  This makes the Homeless Man stutter backwards.  Every syllable that explodes from his brain reveals another chapter of the Book that Cannot Be Read.  The librarians rise through the fog into the stained glass where they begin repeating everything that has ever been said by the Homeless People.  I am lifted by the force of superstition back into the sidewalk, only the exit leads me straight into a Theatre.  I stand there, in the wings, remembering a landing beam that looked like a goldmine bursting with Shakespearean actresses' costume jewelry.  There is nothing left to say, I say.  Suddenly, from across a crowded room, a headless woman appears carrying a lidded silver platter.  She approaches, takes the lid off the Platter and on the platter, is the severed head of Cleopatra.  The severed head of Cleopatra begins singing Sea Shanties.  In  the darkness of the theatre, out just where the eye begins to dissemble the world into Jaguar Spots and Clown Faces, I sense a strange shadowy presence.  Instinctively, I walk towards that presence, footstep by footstep getting drunker with every breath.  At the moment of perfect uncertainty,  the air begins to change colors.  From golden black to a strange purple blue.  The floor disappears and I am swept into the Tahitian twilight.   There are chanting coconuts and revolving doors as far as the eye can see.  Jodi Foster is spinning like a top, her eyes are bursting into flames that her tongue cannot extinguish.  She is pouring margaritas onto a Corpse.  The stars have fallen from the sky and they are waiting like strange birds for someone to tell them what to do next.  Every moment, the beach gets more complex.  The sand becomes a trophy.   The waves become the hair of a Witch boiling with subterranean eyelids.  The fish are like ballerinas lost in a shopping mall.  The Fisherman is teaching his wife how to carry the moon in a Tackle Box.   Light-beams singe my eyebrows the way Einstein cooked his pancakes.   I begin to speculate about the nature of Human Skin.  Why freckles exist.  If Jean Paul Sartre knew what they were doing at the top of the EIffel Tower.  The feeling of existential dread rises in my arms, like a fat man rising up from a patio chair in a strange hotel empty save a  Bartender and the Memory of God.  God, I say to God :  do you have amnesia?  There is no reply.  Just a series of faces that collect in the labyrinth like stained glass painted by disembodied Orphans.  I continue walking, until the convenience store clerk is standing there dressed in her Convenience Store Costume.  On the ceiling, someone has painted a Spider Exhaling White Perfumes.   Slivers of some granulated substance drop down.  I can feel them entering my lungs.  I do not know what the next word will cost me.  I speak.  I say "abracadabra".  It is like I have landed from a ten thousand year old flight. Circling the world disguised as the color of Twilight.  One day, there will be a language of comprehensible astonishment.  A methodology to express the undefined beyond mere syntax.  Contextual symphonies of empathic orchestrations.  Myriad hierarchies of chaotic pandemonium dwelling in Temples of Light.   The Overture of the Underworld, the Gallantry of the Kingdom of If.   As these whispers whirl through the flesh of the Living:  some weird objects appear in what the Tourists call the Sky.   These objects are birdlike, but starllike and moving, in silence --- slow motion zig zags, like the pieces of an illuminated puzzle assembling in the darkness of an Otherworldly Eye.

***

amidst the lilies

there is a series of dialogues

word after word

like the scintilla flickering on the edge

of a stage,

where the ballerinas are waiting

for the audience to arrive,

one late night

when the thunderstorms

are brewing a night of disconnected songs,

music that crashes through the ceiling

like light slipping

through a ring of fire,

on the edge of an eye

in the darkness that cannot be described

but remains

after everything happens anyway

***

a tramp,

bathed in the fire of the unopened eyelids

has discovered a secret lagoon

in the center of a city

that may or may not exist

and the is full of people

who have not yet realized this.

The lagoon is made of colored vowels

circling a still point

in shades of electromagetic probability

that are paused between universes

the way a clown

juggles the eyes of an audience

that knows nothing about the Secret Life of the Cirus

as it approaches the Lagoon

where the tapestry ripples

in interference patterns

like the birthmarks of God,

there on the edge of a mirror

twice the size of the known universe

and full of beings

waiting to be born

disguised as space time events

that happen in patternless patterns

a gestalt like those strange creatures

that van gogh discovered lurking in his

eyeballs

as he gouged them into silence,

the sunflowers still moving

in some non local trapezium.

***

The ghost of a City

is composed of infiltrations of whispers

gossip that circles

a Ferrari

on the edge of the night,

rust that breakdances into the horizon

as the holiness

of a madman,

who knows everything

and can explain everything

still remains

hypnotized by the

sideways glance of a dragonfly

escaping the event horizon of a dandelion

somewhere in a vacant lot

where the skeleton of god  is draped with broken prayer shawls

and every atom of  silence

is colliding with the Empire of Infinity

until the real world arrives

moment by moment in parades of nonsense ---

beings beyond being,

lost in the ghost dance of love,

there in the cemetery that knows nothing

except the sound of

 parallel lines

converging in temples of wonder

***

Scene:  The nucleus of a cell,

inside the eyelid of an elephant.

The stage is set with the Ghost of a Pterodactyl,

Charlie Chaplin

and ten thousand Cannibals whose eyes are spinning

in the direction of Las Vegas.

As the Ghost of the Pterodactyl

invades Charlie Chaplin's Tear Stained Pillow,

the Cannibals begin to chant

the word "Cherry Cherry Cherry" over and over.

The theatre of the elephants nucleus

becomes strangely illuminated, as if it had been constructed

by bioluminescent bacteria who have migrated from

Hawaii on a kayak designed by the Director of the Cia, TENET.

There has been absolute silence on this stage

for ten thousand years.   As the phrase "Cherry Cherry Cherry"

ignites in the ears of the Cannibals,

Charlie Chaplin begins to get sleepy.

The white roses bloom in a sudden burst of negative entropy.

The stage becomes infected with a Host of Imaginary Beings.

The Pterodactyl sweeps around the room, it's laughter an echo

of the echolocating Asteroid that killed most of the dinosaurs.

... A fog begins.

The word "Eleeomosynary" rushes in, disguised as a chemical concoction

painting itself in the juiciest of Hawaiian vowels known to the people

on the other side of the stained glass window.

The Word. The word.  The world. the whirled word whirling.

A rupture of the roses, and three Tinkerbells are born,

there where the Stained glass is melting and there is a place of such perfect silence

that not even the doorbell knows how to answer the sound of it's voice in a forest

full of trees that have gone deaf from asking too many questions when nobody

was listening.

And the tear stained pillow is waiting.  It is a car thief.  It is a jewel thief

it is the Thief that Stole the Diamond Eyed Cadillac from the Center of the White House

Lawn the Moment they Turned the Universe Off.

Word after word.  The pillow begins laughing.  It sounds like dandelions growing in th e

SAn Francisco Fog.  It sounds like the eyelids of kangaroos opening and closing

where the Boomerangs fly through broken windows, never to return

but to fly into the southern sky,

through the southern cross

on the way back to some Imaginary Palace

where Charlie Chaplin's ten thousandth Incarnation is selling encyclopedias

to a room full of Orphaned Shakespeare's, their voices thick with

stories of the Other World.  The world before they closed the book and arrested

Dante and threw Dr. Seuss into a puzzle of sunburnt lazer beams,

the ones that devour the conscience of God

in ten sentences, as Vanna White and Pat Sajak and Alex Trebek

trick the world into the slumbering hypnotic

paralyzing paranoia, there, where the cemetery is glowing in radioactive

corpses and the face of God is a mandala

that does not exist, and the dreams flow down the drainpipes

like vampire bats flowing from room to room disguised as National Security Agents

dressed as waiters, and they're holding perfumes and potions and remote controls

and whispering the names of Insane Attorneys who get trapped in Elevators

their minds bursting like light bulbs in the strange light of ten million suns,

everyone trying to think of some joke,

some word,

some way to make the whole world nervous in just that certain way so that when

the elevator gets stuck on Channel Thirteen

during the last halftime show of the ultimate apocalypse,

the referees will all say Shazam Shazam Shazam

and in will arrive the Toreadors, the Troubadours, the Kamikaze

Bovine Acrobats, the White Hot Red Hot Blue Hot Green Thoughtless Buddhas

of Luckenback Texas where nobody knows anything except the sound of the fiddles

all day and the river is flush with dead flowers and pulsing beer cans

and the styrofoam cups that have no future but are everywhere

more than the flowers more than the nightmares of the crocodiles

as the crocodiles run in rivers of petroleum,

they smell like Mc Donalds the Big Mac of Infinite Hunger

a cook book booming with pink sludge,

the same petrochemicals that gave birth to Charlie Manson

and the Eyeshadow of Elizabeth Taylor who is really Charlie Manson's

Mother and the entire Theatre turns the color of Charlie Chaplin's eyes

and the Cannibals begin to describe the sensation of being

eating alive by the Internet,

a million ghost songs spilling from the Mouth of the Pterodactyl's Mouth,

the revolution of the revolving door

where nobody can think or speak or say or do anything

without wondering how the Spider God at the End of the Known Universe

will quaver in it's network of crystalline insanity

and punch the button on the machine that begat the machine

that swallowed the babies in Bangladesh

some great hissing cloud of ultimate paranoia winding it's way through the blue

sky that is no longer blue but rather the color

of Shiva's a*s, a strange translucent television where the stars

are assembling an audience of misbegotten beings,

their pulses synchronizing until the entire

video game begins calling for Blood More Blood

the Pentagon Video Game

the Video Game of the Ultimate Living Room

full of bath salts and methylethylketone scented hydrangea blooms

and a plate of leftover West Nile Virus

as SEEN ON TELEVISION

where the Vampire Cheerleaders are Spinning their Vibrators

and selling the world glimpses of their Major Labia

at 10 cents a pop,

until the television is frothing over with Naked Orangutangs

that Glow in the dark and make your mouth water to the Tune

of Did I really See That, Horace, and it all becomes

one everlasting ad for the Instantaneous Salvation of All You Can Eat Viagra

and there are no ghosts in the suburbs,

no Guerilla Warfare Top Secret Urban Superhero's waltzing through the Suburban

Shopping Malls to the Sound of Blondie Singing rapture

but rather the entire death trap mind f**k meat eat you meat eat me

holy holy pray for the unholiness to just be free of exploding Robot Aliens

who buy the guns to prevent anyone from taking them away

and the whole street is a Scene from a Bolly Wood Holly Wood Dolly Wood

movie howling in unison,

until they all begin shooting in random pandemonium,

lyrical miracles erupting in three dimension intentions

coincidentally arranged by the Department of Infinite Simultaneity,

the ones with Three Polyurethan Faces,

they are everywhere they have cloned your Grandmother and have sent her

racing down the street in a Lamborghini that makes your eyes

change colors and then wowie everyone knows who you were last night,

the Computers are stalking Computers, the Stalkers are Hacking the Policemen

the Policemen are Arresting the Policemen and Suing the Lawyers until

the Secret Agents who are not secret agents are investigating everyone

just like a scene from Sesame Street in the Dark Ages

when Leonardo da Vinci found the name of God written

inside a leaf the color of Galilleo's smile

which you will discover on the moon,

which is not a moon

but a remote control Outpost of the Reptilian Rockefeller's Honeycomb Hideout,

a place full of machines

and slogans

and enlightened beings that fall from the Blueness of the Dark desert

sky,

sending photons of the ultimate enchantment through the city park

draped in rotten vagabond bikinis

and the listerine scented eyelashes that hang in the trees

until the werewolves of Kansas City come sweeping by with Boomerangs,

having been Whiplashed by the Wizard of Oz all the way into Suburbs of Houston

where some vast Purple Eyed CEO is planning to invade

Tahiti,

the Tahiti where Paul Gaugin taught the Thunderclouds how

to steer themselves according to the ancient laws

of Illuminated Equestrian Sojourners

who were born before the spinning of the world

and the moon was not in place

and the stars were still capable of sending email

into the heart of the Leviathan

which has transformed itself into a million diodes

that shimmer like the dream of Ulysses,

jewels and tibetan sparrows armed with rare impercievable colors

whistling like the bones and the wig of medusa

who wore her mask to the Wedding of Zeus

and listened as her mouth exploded with Smoke from the Arboreal Wedding

and the sound of the Diamonds in the Blue sky

twinkled in the flesh of an ever expanding harpsichord that '

drifted through the ether as if it had been invented

by Socrates and Plato themselves,

as Aristotle gave birth to a City that was made of Whale Bones,

the Face of the Mermaid drifting through it's shadows

as a the Cannibals slept in the cemetery,

when the birth of Tragedy was happening

and Charlie Manson began laughing at the Bottom of San QUentin Prison

remembering the question

that Timothy LEary forgot to ask

the question that writes itself backwards in the dust motes

of Aldebaran, in the Torture Chambers of the Spanish Inquisition

writing itself in glow in the dark ink

and the hallucinatory chemicals secreted by the Star filtering Toads,

every chemical combination like a Gift from a different Constellation,

galaxies and single unit pole shifters exploding with dialogues

of otherworldly beings,

their brains a caged exhalation controlled by some

pyromaniac fireman at the beginning of time

when everything happened at once and there were not yet any sounds

or smells

or tastes

or touches,

just the hemi-semi-quavering of undifferentiated atoms

whirling in the center of the Mantra, the Mandala,

the Madman of Eternity

the Eyeless Angel, swimming through the eyelids of the Visionary God

a rose born in the flame of the bonfire that burns

nothing except the flesh of those who sit in it's glow,

a living paradox of dream within dream and the strange undiscovered

beauty of the world that has yet to be born.

***

On the other side of the atomic structure of a Grape

there is a kingdom fueled

by seagulls,

whose eyes scan the mountaintops

like sentinels of a forgotten

movie

waiting for some denizen

a Yogi Perhaps,

a giant Godzilla,

to burst through the skin of infinity as if it was a vineyard

and dress the world with a chess board

set in ten dimensions,

the kind that they play in the Himalayas

when Vishnu is roaring a mantra

in the ten thousand tones

of Avalokitesevara's heartbeat,

and the beings of Grace and Infinity Assemble

in Wild Chiaruscuro,

leaping down the mountains as if they too

were snowflakes,

those beings that could never be melted

by the strange thermodynamics

of Heaven and Hell,

and rise  into the starlight as if to explain to the andromedan

kingdom

there is no end to the perfection

and the world contains mysteries

the world of mysteries cannot contain

***

as the willow tree washed

itself of the piercing screams

that lay resting in the soil

at the top of the sky began

a whispering of plasmas,

the convergence of life and inorganic entities

the 5th state of existence

that few hearts can unexplain,

a gathering of dolphin eyes assembled in a circle

underneath the Tahitian Moon,

a palette of geometries,

some of which have not yet been named,

not even by Pythagoras

in the place where the crystals grow

like the language of the Stone

Hidden in the Tree,

where the Rose is still laughing,

at the Lady of the Lake,

whose face is a signal displayed upon the earth

from ten thousand light years away,

a place of centuries before

the Library disappeared in a burning flash of madness

*

Every bird remembers the sound of the thunder lizard,

a strange song that traveled from inside the spellbinding

webs of exotic plants, those Ferns

that were trained to sing the name of an Alien Queen,

bluer than the green sun

in a charcoal colored sky

rising with Satellites that even the Archaeopteryx

could not find rational,

rotations on the Z axis

notwithstanding the scrutiny of the Temple,

the instant that a Flock of Photons

escaped

the Speed of Light (in both directions)

and stood motionless for the Conductor,

leaving the night sky

silent

but singing an unfinished song

that waits in the tops of the treetops

like the fingers of Methuselah,

on the verge of sudden liberty,

where the sensory perceptions are

a series of well timed symphonies.

***

Every beak of every bird

has been plotted by the Cray

Deep Blue, it's brain is bursting across

the White House Lawn

in a series of Polka dots

that bring the consciousness into a sudden reverie

of the way the Night began,

before it was dark light dark

but some other state

like the mouth of a lion at twilight,

the balancing point

of ten thousand sunbeams

on the surface of a horizon

where einstein was sailing a sailboat

and thinking of what it was like to be 3 years old

never speaking a word,

wordlessly driven into wonder by some mysterious

curve of a pine cone

in the forest of Ulm,

where the Descartean Angel

was sleeping,

3 hundred years

a hallucination of a textbook written

by the astronomers at CERN.

***

Every beak of every bird

has been plotted by the Cray

Deep Blue, it's brain is bursting across

the White House Lawn

in a series of Polka dots

that bring the consciousness into a sudden reverie

of the way the Night began,

before it was dark light dark

but some other state

like the mouth of a lion at twilight,

the balancing point

of ten thousand sunbeams

on the surface of a horizon

where einstein was sailing a sailboat

and thinking of what it was like to be 3 years old

never speaking a word,

wordlessly driven into wonder by some mysterious

curve of a pine cone

in the forest of Ulm,

where the Descartean Angel

was sleeping,

3 hundred years

a hallucination of a textbook written

by the astronomers at CERN.

***

In Bethlehem's sepulchrous twilight,

a crescent moon

dallied where the candelabras were suspended

in the sky

like a necklace of infinite light,

every poem notwithstanding,

until the Magi

opened the door to the Night Sky

and the Star that was not a Star

turned from blue into persimmon

and into a flowery curl

descending, as if it knew what it was doing,

as if it was more than a Star

but also a Symbol

as if anyone knows what a symbol is

even as it slips like a thief

into the back of the developing brain,

where all the children are immaculate

and the Night Sky is like a pillow,

and there are no answers, but a strange travelling sense

of Questions that cannot explain why they

even need to be asked, to begin with

***

the black soil is a raven's typewriter

every broken egg,

an exclaimation point and question mark

combined,

until Socrates arrives and begins cawing

neologisms to the Sky,

and the raven's eye inverts

and nothing is left but a tree the shape

of the Philosopher's Skull,

where all the birds have become suddenly

suspended by the sound of a halogen lamp

flickering off and on

in the corner of the world,

where the Great Bird is dancing with a Shaman

into an undiscovered color

somewhere between Ultraviolet and the Speed of Light,

like Oberon's eyelid

wagging in some Shakespearean sentence

undiscovered until the moment the pages of the book

rustle in the wind

of Stratford

***

the black soil is a raven's typewriter

every broken egg,

an exclaimation point and question mark

combined,

until Socrates arrives and begins cawing

neologisms to the Sky,

and the raven's eye inverts

and nothing is left but a tree the shape

of the Philosopher's Skull,

where all the birds have become suddenly

suspended by the sound of a halogen lamp

flickering off and on

in the corner of the world,

where the Great Bird is dancing with a Shaman

into an undiscovered color

somewhere between Ultraviolet and the Speed of Light,

like Oberon's eyelid

wagging in some Shakespearean sentence

undiscovered until the moment the pages of the book

rustle in the wind

of Stratford

***

An inviolable violet

containing the recipe for Cambrian Gods

has chased it's Grandfather

through a secret tunnel that leads

to the maternity ward of G-d,

there, somewhere where the Garden

has assembled a fountain

of leukocytes that remember the world

before the world began,

a balancing point of mysterious wisdom

growing over the emptiness

as if the Void itself had no idea

what they meant by the sound of the rain,

a pitter patter of empty umbrellas

that move through the world like ballerinas

whose toes

contain the blueprints of Tornadoes,

out in the green fields full of archetypes

Macbeth and Hamlet

playing chess with Oberon and Ariel

the white eyes of some ghostlike being

sifting the wheat while the wilderness drops

it's handkerchief in forgotten symbols,

some assembly required.

***

An unfathomable method of re-entry

into the ionosphere, where the sky contains

auroras,

harps of celestial plasmas that rise like the curtains

of Tiamat's windowpane,

revealing centuries of coded language

inside a tortoise shell cloud

where the angels are curled like ferns,

a rainforest of parables

hurled to the ground,  where wild honey

is chasing the children into Castles of Honeycomb,

their eyelids rich with chemical fires,

blue dots, green squares, red icicles that float

through the pupil and contain all the fantasias of Chopin

(until Chopin discovers them)

and send their wisdom into the pillow

like doves in Winter,

racing towards some Southern SHore

where not even Christopher Columbus could explain

the Flag that Mankind Did Not Design.

***

a parabolic membrane assembled

in the nursery rhyme

where the Vowels are Teaching

a mobile made of papier mache

how to unexplain the world,

the laughter of the blue wind

sending whisks of zen like wisdom

through the curtains

into the front yard where a grasshopper is bowling

the skull of an aphid

through grass the color of trichlorofluoroethane

should it be sweet like asbestos,

and full of Sumerian Fire

the kind of fire that Gilgamesh ignited

at the Bottom of the Sea

when the Coral Reef smiled, knowing

it had not yet explained the recipe

to the Magi

***

a parabolic membrane assembled

in the nursery rhyme

where the Vowels are Teaching

a mobile made of papier mache

how to unexplain the world,

the laughter of the blue wind

sending whisks of zen like wisdom

through the curtains

into the front yard where a grasshopper is bowling

the skull of an aphid

through grass the color of trichlorofluoroethane

should it be sweet like asbestos,

and full of Sumerian Fire

the kind of fire that Gilgamesh ignited

at the Bottom of the Sea

when the Coral Reef smiled, knowing

it had not yet explained the recipe

to the Magi

***

A trillion volts of Vishnus

laughter.

In the curve of the human elbow

there is a wild fox barking in the electricity

of bones and marrow,

tripping down the spine

like Boris Karloff

chasing Bela Lugosi

across the White House Lawn

as if it was the on ramp to

the Shangri La that begins

on the other Side of God,

where nothing but a shadow

oscillates in the resonance of the heartache of Whales,

whose plumes sing of Jonah

and the way Nostradamus shuffled the stars

until the Mediterranean Sea

reminded him of a woman's face

and the lilies rose out of the mouth of the lost world

shimmering

until the Perilous Door opened

and Nostradamus ascended into the circle of silence

motionless being that contains motionless worlds

atoms that stand still,

even as if they too were struck by the stillness

of Being Being Being.

***

the ambience of the audience

is wasted in the middle of the theatre

where the color of the Old Man's eyes

is backlit by a whirlwind of

Shakespearean madmen,

every pearl of wisdom a lightning beam

that strikes from within the heart,

the sensation of something that rises

rapidly from the beginning of the Time,

the stones too slow

to notice,

churning like a cast iron clown

in the belly of a whale

headed towards atlantis

where SOcrates is still alive,

channel surfing the Reptilian Hindbrains

of ten million gathered in the brownian motion

of a discotheque in the middle of the Grand Canyon,

where the river is full of a dozen baby Moses

headed towards Las Vegas with an abacus

and a chisel,

where the neon lights will remind them

of the tree that burned until the mountaintop

could be seen from within the palaces of Alpha Centauri,

those silent creatures

sending email in the year 10,000 B.C.

***

it is raining methylethylketone.

underneath the soil,

where the children are sleeping

like Tulips,

there where the silence is rich with diamonds

that remind the Africans

of what the Lion saw

the moment the sun set

when the Savannah was silent

and rich

with Shepherds sleeping by the light of Cassiopeia,

no moon to wake them

from the emptiness of the Great Dream,

the dream that never ends

but that races through the limitless being

on roller skates the color

of Elizabeth Taylors eyes,

there amongst the lilac colored rain

that tastes

on the tongue, a bittersweet pearl that gathers no

moss,

but sits on the tongue in the geometry of broken

glass.

***

a vestigial memory,

surfacing in the flood of dopamine around a

vortex of ions

assembled here today,

has blossomed like a paragraphs of

sentient sentences

on the edge of Edgar Allen Poes

shaving razor.

In the dark light, Edward arranges a series

of shadows

depicting the scene from Hyperborea,

when the QUeendom was chasing the Leviathan

through the fields of Unborn Elms,

there in the ground that is the color

of a bathroom mirror,

empty and without faces,

but shining with some strange tapestry

of knowledge

that will surface some seven years later

in a snowflake that lands

on a street urchins nose,

in Baltimore

where Poe has discovered the secret axiom

hidden in Shakespeare's Hamlet,

just at the scene

when the Night Sky is the color of a Tiara

and the Queen

is pacing the floor

to the rhythm of a pulse

synchronized by the Bells of Stratford.

The moment the Universe realizes the strange way

the memory of God

drifts through their flesh in vortices of light

and chiarascuro,

tempests of tenuous ambiguity,

theatres bathed in the preternatural glow of the Audience Soul

as it reaches escape velocity

and every woman and man

is standing on the Stage,

costumed by chance

and the uncertainty of Endless Afterlife,

where somewhere,

Poe is no Longer Poe.

***

on the edge of the lake, there is a SWan

bathing the sunlight in honey.

Someone has scattered the parts of a broken machine

around the beak of the swan

as it is calculating the distance between Earth

and Neptune,

where surely the ghosts must be waiting,

the ghosts that are draped like curtains,

over there in the reeds that sing

the First thoughts of Riverboat Messiahs

and the strange way the blacklight

bursts in their skin

until hieroglyphics of ancient wisteria

surrender their eyes to something happening in the year

8 Billion.

Where the Machine came from, we do not remember.

It has been signed by the photons in gold

and left for Elemental Atmospheres to circumscribe

the way the Astronauts Orbited the Earth

in Costumes,

on the surface of the Moon full of dust motes

the White Witch will never sweep,

but that will remain

orbiting the edge of the lake

gazing at the wings of the SWan

until the Night falls in vortices

of Unfinished Symphonies

and the Machine begins to remember

what it is that it is creating

***

A Chalice where the Prison Was

The transmogrification of alien entities

around the skyscraper,

an antennae broadcasting the daydreams

of Conquistadors

into the Textbooks that write themselves

in a language that crawls

around the world like a SPider,

trapping Ghosts in it's Arboreal Curl,

bathing the Sunlight in it's delicious spine,

opening the mouth of Free Tailed Bats

whose eyes curve around the still point

where Heaven and Hell are balancing

russian ballerinas

in the fibonacci sequence until Arthur Rimbaud

begins to spiral

up through the smoke of the City

the illuminated spires,

the ghost town of Old Hollywood,

where Charlie Chaplin and Errol Flynn

are carving antlers from Tombstones,

just as the daydream said they would be.

*

In the refraction of a well polished mirror

there is a point where the real world becomes

like a Bottle Full of GEnies

marching into some Paradox

that confuses the human eyes and makes the Strange Ones

run to the other side of the room

to find darkness

and emptiness

the Undiscovered Void

that is neither hideous nor beautiful

but remains,

like the Statue of David

after Michelangelo

has taken away

all the stone that was not meant to be David,

and the Wine Dark Sea

is churning like the Belly of a Sybil,

sulfur and silence

and the footsteps of Lao Tzu,

who lived like an angel

where the parallel Lines Converge

***

A single strand of golden hair falling

down the lilac eyes of twilight

descending down a stairwell

where the dead Ones find their feet

are laced with lead.   There were combination locks

inside their eyes

that day, as the dragonfly lifted it's wings into the sky

and circled the lamp post

until the soldier was sleeping,

it's heart a tomb a cathedral a tomb a cathedral

where the

Angels bounce from nuclei to nuclei,

as if the body was a Candelabra

of phosphorescent wheat,

bursting into low earth orbit

declaring war on the daffodils,

submachine guns blaring at the Priest Like Beings

assembling punctuation marks

in the depths of the Night Sky,

where Harry Houdini has turned the constellations

into a Turntable,

spinning ten thousand songs around and around

until the maternity ward explodes

revealing the infant

Marlon Brando,

laughing off key.

***

Rings of Gold,

the merriment of Car Thieves

shining in the convenience store

until nothing remains,

not even the clerk

and the store is glowing like a Box of Fireworks

ready to detonate

when the Angels come bursting through the Center of the Sky

asking for ALms

before the Video Game is Over

and the machine runs out of things it can

eat.

And like obedient tourists, pacing the stage between commercials,

the Journalists

put their faces into the Papier Mache Heart of the Television

declaring none of this is real

nothing

it's just like we showed you on TV

and hahaha do you think this Molotov Cocktail

makes me look intelligent

when the lost world gurgles like a gargoyle on the edge of the subaltern

abyss,

strange eyeless beings whose names are written in chalk

backwards in the last gasps of the graveyard,

dark like Jimi Hendrix Fathers' 12 Fingers,

the fog rolling down the sky

in non electric phantasmagoria,

the bedsheet of the strange World a lost world the Walmart

cannot sell

or explain,

where the fluorescent light is like a Parable

Stolen from Nikolai TEslas

love notes to Baba Yaga,

Tunguska,

Siberia,

Edison

and Madame Blavatsky

washed by the lightning the filaments of Heaven

brought down with the analog brain

***

Trace elements of the Kingdom of Elves

have filtered their way through the Irises

of Non Linear World,

photon by photon escaping from the television

like the Gifts of the Magi

in some recycled frame from a movie

made in the King's Chamber,

while the Great Pyramid was as silent

as a vacuum tube in the hands

of a newborn,

a philosopher's stone that remains unfinished

by all but the

technicians that wander the world cloaked in Equations

that Cannot Be rationally explained,

surfacing on the surface of a cow pond,

briefly when the SOrcerers are sleeping

and the Kingdom of Elves is retracing it's steps

back into the mouth of the disappearing grave,

memory

into memory

a blueprint of Temples chasing Temples

down the landslide of history

snowflakes

arriving on the edge of the wolverine's tongue,

an Aesop's Fable

that cannot be changed

***

the sound of the spirit,

rising on a thermal

into the western sky where the billboards are scrawled with graffiti,

the question marks of a civilization seething like the internal combustion engine

of some unborn god

seeking to write it's name in the depths of the wine dark sky.  A phantasmagoria

that reminds the passersby of the land before time.  Conjurations

of madmen.  Eyeless blue phantasms with cans of paint, laughing methamphetamine ghosts

in the drainage ditch full of empty beer cans and the halogen light

that casts shadows on the scene.  It's something they don't teach you on Television.

She casts her eyes like they were gambling dice,

up in to the stars as if it was Vegas.  They keep rolling.  Over and over and around her skull

until her brain is backlit,

unlit, sunburnt and dizzy with a Hitchcockian Vertigo,

frothing over with strange dogs on the verge of escaping into the night where they will

chase the wanderers through the streets, remembering a day before the world went electric.

On the edge of the cemetery there is an electronic box,

it is gathering the names of God as they transmogrify into ten trillion unfinished

love poems.  God writes God love poetry the way the Flamingos balance alligator eyes in the Florida Dusk.

It is permanently impermanent, just like the Buddha forgot to describe.

As the Cemetery ignites with the well wishes of Alpha Centauri,

the morning dew begins to collect it's audience.  Bead after bead, bird after bird, atom by atom,

the Memory of those Madmen --- escaping from the beaches of Normandy,

racing through the 1950's with nothing but their flesh intact,

their souls weather beaten, alcohohol soaked and laced with the laughter of the television set,

turning over in their graves the way the moon

turned over the moment Neil Armstrong sent his footstep quavering into

it's Egyptian Belly, every phoenix in the unknowable universe bathed in a

resonant harmony that drifted like a feather one month later the moment

Richie Havens stepped on the stage at Woodstock and sent three hundred thousand people

spiraling like a sun gone loose from it's moorings,

out into history that is not history at all, but is like a parable within parables,

carousels of wisdom and the ghost light of fools spinning around in the brownian motion

that knows nothing but the mystery of it's own non random ness.  It is not random.

It can not be random.  If it exists at all, it is not merely Random.

Randomnicity is the Void.  A question mark a typographical error in a book,

placed their by some secret criminal that never dies but that dwells in some

strange anonymity in a world where almost nothing is possible,

nothing would be possible,

had it not been for the Anonymity Clause, the one written by the G-d of creation,

an imperfect stage set with self assembling chess players.

And in that moment of the instantaneous awareness:  the halogen lamp stops shining.

The human eye becomes a vessel.  The Noah's ark of God's perfection.

Everything, even that shattered smile on the edge of the cemetery,

writhing with superstitions and the last thoughts of unborn being,

become suddenly real.  It's like the moment someone's favorite actor

suddenly appears out of the blue, in the middle of a park in some city

and the entire history of television cycles through the brain.  It is

a punctuated evolution, a moment where the possibilities are expanded into

Nth Dimension parallels,

polyhedrons of fantasia exploding in ten thousand directions.   The convenience store

on the edge of the cemetery.  Where everything is impossible.  The truth cannot be known.

The real world cannot be seen. Styrofoam cups like the scales of the Dragon.

***

with Gazelles

in the bloodstream,

the prologue of empathic beings

traversing the void of the voids

in caravanserai

of probabilities,

when a freckle sang

like Nostradamus, opening it's mouth

into the flood plains of being

as the Moveable Feast

arrived.

*

There were twelve old men,

sitting by the sidewalk glazed over with carbon monoxide.

Like wild Lakota Sioux, remembering their descent through Cambodia

Thunderbirds of Silence

whirring above the treetops

as if they were Obsidian Greek Argonauts

laughing themselves to sleep

on an Enchanted Island

where the men are Pigs and Circe

hangs her eyelashes

from a Crescent moon, her navel the color of rubies

*

on the other side of the mountain, the cesium clock

is ticking,

a paint by number scene from some hollywood

miracle,

where all the actors remember their lines

even when they are dreaming

and the dreams have credits

that rhyme with the names of the Saints

as revealed by Ezekiel,

that night at the bus stop

when the Baker was carrying bread

that contained riddles,

combination locks of flesh

spinning in carouselambras

of misunderstood suffering, the

last thoughts of Woody Guthrie

echoing down the street

in an accent that made the Windowsill gypsies

burst into deep green neutrality,

the grass on the feet

radioactive and pulsing

with chameleons

***

with Gazelles

in the bloodstream,

the prologue of empathic beings

traversing the void of the voids

in caravanserai

of probabilities,

when a freckle sang

like Nostradamus, opening it's mouth

into the flood plains of being

as the Moveable Feast

arrived.

*

There were twelve old men,

sitting by the sidewalk glazed over with carbon monoxide.

Like wild Lakota Sioux, remembering their descent through Cambodia

Thunderbirds of Silence

whirring above the treetops

as if they were Obsidian Greek Argonauts

laughing themselves to sleep

on an Enchanted Island

where the men are Pigs and Circe

hangs her eyelashes

from a Crescent moon, her navel the color of rubies

*

on the other side of the mountain, the cesium clock

is ticking,

a paint by number scene from some hollywood

miracle,

where all the actors remember their lines

even when they are dreaming

and the dreams have credits

that rhyme with the names of the Saints

as revealed by Ezekiel,

that night at the bus stop

when the Baker was carrying bread

that contained riddles,

combination locks of flesh

spinning in carouselambras

of misunderstood suffering, the

last thoughts of Woody Guthrie

echoing down the street

in an accent that made the Windowsill gypsies

burst into deep green neutrality,

the grass on the feet

radioactive and pulsing

with chameleons

***

in the Himalayas, a mandelbrot sequence

is drifting like the hair of Gautama Buddha,

a vision of something escaping the skull

drifting into the snowy egress

where nothing is happening, nothing is happening,

the mantra is dissolved

like Mother Theresa's tears painted on the flesh

of an Orphan,

when the sky breaks out like a mirrored umbrella

that sends the sun

shining into the universe,

a puzzled chimera dancing on the edge of the razor

as the world

slows down,

the slow motion of infinity,

an acrobatic delirium of post molecular Beings.

The Kind that sleep in the salt shaker,

their faces ghastly reminders that the Universe

is not

What the Universe thinks it is,

but remains,

like Ophelia,

draped in water lilies,

surrounded by ten million incarnations of Manet,

there in the windowsill glass

that is puzzled over with polka dots and eldritch ciphers

***

Europe is the Asian polygon,

a manifestation of isometric polymers

charged with the blue fire of Greek

marathons,

the children of Zeus assembled where the Great Bear

is balancing blueberries

on the serpent mound of Asgard,

a wild Fae

igniting her feet in the starry caverns

where the womb

is glowing with phosphenes, the eyes of Uncreated Creator

smiling

like rainbows,

upside down in the Optic Chiasm

where the deer are cresting on the top of an antedeluvian tongue,

howling

the Name

of the Name

as the Name

seeks anonymity in the probability fields

of a world beyond it's own comprehension

***

A silent fury,

the curiousity of the Drake

racing around a city

in colored glass, the unfinishing of the world

made manifest

in a newborn smile.  The museum

is the Maternity ward of Disbelief,

every object

a resonant entity purse with the unfinished fire

of Heaven

the antedeluvian amphibians

and Starry Eyed Kelp

rippling with hydrogen perplexity, the maneuvers

of the fingerprints of the Storm God,

like a lisp

on the beach

licking the Wound until Life begins

vortices of madness

paused

***

a sharp gasp

around the face of an angler fish mouth,

revealing the Smile of some Otherworldly Queen,

her eyes

a river of endless superstitions coursing into the top of the sky

like a ballerino

falling off of the stage,

into the arms

of an Astronaut,

by accident,

by chance,

perhaps to remind those assembled in the starlight

that someone is listening

in ways that the human brain cannot comprehend,

in ways that the

philosopher's have not imagined.

*

There, where the edge of the stage is like a Suicide's trampoline

every line rehearsed,

and the razor stays at the edge of the throat

while the audience is nodding with well timed applause,

laughter on the other side of the door

an echo that brings the Century into a resonant octave

of disbelief,

the mandelbrot sequence like a waltz

that began in the footsteps of Christ,

the day after they finished

writing the Bible

***

Thunderclouds like the ovaries of the Elm,

waiting until the sunlight

trips into the oscillation of indigo vertigo,

a fiery instant

of argument, the thunder does not explain

until the last moment

when the wishing well burps

the nightmare of a Frog Witch,

her last thoughts sounding like an earthquake

the Laboratory could not explain,

rising in curious feathers against the canvass

of the world,

where a Troubador has changed the Channel

on the Mind of God.

Everyone will now be Anonymous.

The World will spin backwards,

like Socrates Eyes as he sang songs with the Oracle of Delphi,

every stone on the side of the ocean

revealing the jagged jawbone of some emanation of Zeus,

the promethean angels escaping

on scintilla

through the mirror of the Wine Dark Sea,

where nothing but Blueness

could explain the Ghost of the Priestess as she spiraled

off the edge of the tablet

into the last temple,

a strange Ship,

the Phoenicians kept asleep in the fury of the

Lost Night.

***

In

filigree of unfinished wisdom,

there was a Madman

painting the last thoughts of his last year

in tattoos upon a Mermaid's umbrella,

where the sunlight sings nothing but rainbows,

the way the Sea Lions

remember, their mother's eyes

rotating in candelabras of ancient planets,

Uranium rocks, Plutonium Night,

the dream of Galileo

crashing on the shore where the white birds

rise and fall,

confetti in the heart of a Beauty Queen,

her name unwritten, but writing it's malady

on the sheet music of the skin,

where every choir is breaking into silence

like the last punctuation marks of the Book of Genesis,

a strange creation

that changes colors year by year,

the year 1000 stranger

than the alchemists might have described,

the raven's beak

sparkling in the distance like a song

that plays itself out

in the shadowy labyrinth of the atomic

structure of a Rock

***

The fire wisdom of the Sun,

a path between the end of the Ocean

and the stairwell at the edge of your nose,

where the smoke

and the ghosts

and the moonlight

are writing encyclopedias

of lost wisdom,

instructions for the Argonauts

as they open the sails

to the Wind, the wind becomes a Zephyr of Zeppelins,

the endless eye

the motionless moment of instantaneous surreneder

ten thousand infinite buddhas

balanced in a grape

floating towards some unknown location

where the path that leads across the surface of the wave

is painted with Seahorses

and the Last thoughts of Ulysses,

a stranger marooned amongst the dust motes of Infinity,

where the white clouds

are falling in regress,

the portrait of Dorian Gray like the face you think you see

in the bathroom mirror

***

imaginary beings, fossilized by the Daydreams

of Mortals.

A white cloud circling the city

like James Dean in a UFO,

racing into Negative Entropy,

as if the Skyscrapers were not there,

as if the History of Man

was finished,

and the History of God, begun,

on the edge of the city

where the grass is like a mohawk of those insane children

tap dancing in fields

with purple toes and green bandanas

the color of Lemurs basking above the place

where they grow

revolving doors

in the soil,

a garden of superstitious beings

whose eyes peer out,

singing songs to the Farmer,

a strange resonant recipe

the Book that Cannot Be Read by Ordinary Eyes

reveals,

where the flowers turn over in a silence

every blossom a cup

and a hat

and a chalice

and a temple

full of raindrops that rhyme

their laughter with the Lightning

***

Five dimension poetry,

writing itself in the Sky

where Jimi Hendrix is glowing like

a dragonfly,

his eyes casting parallelograms

around the treetops,

penumbral umbrellas of turquoise

mannequins,

the harlequin daydreams of circus animals

escaping from the circus,

running down mainstreet on whirlwinds

of juggler's fingerprints,

when the street is empty and the cobblestone

reminds the hobo

of the last place he remembered understanding

a word that anyone else ever said,

and it rains the color of peacock feathers,

that strange bird

with eyes that cannot see,

but stare into the Mouth of the Leopard,

often laughing until

the Moonlight arrives

cloaked in atoms whose equations

were not composed by the Architects' mind,

but grow,

organic strangers in a world beyond the world

where the dialogue is stranger

than they can begin to believe,

a waltz of waltzes

in an empty room

where only the darkness remains

and the glasses cannot be broken

***

In the

palace of equestrians,

where the Last Sea is crashing towards the House of Seahorse Heaven,

an opalescent foam

is dancing with the nightmares of the Bougainvillea,

like the Sea Lion

remembered on the beach

of Broken Glass and Ancient Sub Poems,

Antonin Artaud

whose ghost tramples the lightbeams in a flood

of endless wisdom,

howling jawless,

a broken skeleton assembling in the place

where Columbus left his final footprint, the Mouth of Neil Armstrong

glowing in the Sky,

a moon for strangers,

an envelope remaining unopened

Prometheus,

the Argonauts,

Edgar Allen Poe dancing out of Baltimore

in a Hearse driven by those Seahorses

towards a Tower in the Middle of the Void,

as if the purple sky was laughing

and the world had not yet even begun,

a doorway

opening up from the garden soil,

where the Owl

is a Sentient Sentence,

unwritten save for a single word

***

There is a bird without a song,

caged in the eye

of a blind man singing the words

to a deaf God,

balanced like the Eye of Sybils

around a bonfire of the cruciforms

racing around the world

in uncertain spirals,

last wishes,

first wishes,

the dishes of the trees

falling around the world like moons that rise

into the fluorescent sky,

angels of the last remembering,

ghostly

incomprehensibles

where the Sea and the Sky

can explain everything,

at the last moment the Sun

dissolves

a burst of emeralds

in the dream of the ruby,

as the sapphires

in the sky

whirl

to the sound of the Universe Unknowing,

chasing itself

off the stage

in the unchoreographed choreography,

Kurt Godel's theorem

remains,

like a wound that cannot be healed

***

The webbed feet of the archangels

was discovered at the edge of the sky

on Channel 99,

there blinking as the photons flower

in flocks of unforgotten fantasias,

call them ducks,

or dinosaurs,  the Magi

or the Troupe of Shakespearean Actors

lost in Noumenon

of Events that seem like they are People

and People that seem like they are People

and People that seem like they are Books

and Books that seem as if they are hurricanes of silence

whirling on the steps of

an abandoned library,

where the blueprints cost ten trillion dollars

and nothing actually happens at all,

but the beeping of the Lost Machines

as they wander the twilight

seeking another quarter

in some vagabond's hand,

and

***

a kabuki of shadows where the sidewalk

is draped like a ventriloquists tongue,

slaked only by footprints trapped in the amber

of civilization.

Some false god, perhaps, crawling towards the Shopping Mall,

not Bedlam,

but only looking for a T Shirt

to advertise the anthropologies of Light

as it descends through the sky,

landing on the sidewalk

the way the mime's tongue lands on a piano,

thirteen languages assembling in the Ether,

where nobody has heard anyone speak

since the day they Invented Television.

*

The flesh of the tree is a parade of bewitched enchantments,

every corpuscle of transformational syntax

brewing up the laughter of leaves,

the Saturnalian raves of the Ravens,

Sparrows hearts thumping through an encyclopedia of chirpings,

the fears of God

self Assembling in a wood knot that twists

the way it remembered it's grandfather

as it crashed, a hydrogen gypsy

upon the Shore,

where the clouds were like bridesmaids

to something that lurks

under the Sea,

the sheet music of a song without music,

playing itself,

a symphony of parallel lines,

Einstein's Mustache

Infinity Squared.

***

There is an exoskeleton shaped like your Grandfather's eyelid

warbling drunk,

full of Centuries of Birds,

every bird eye refracting with Scenes from Moliere,

a shark tooth burnt on the ground,

where the ladies are discussing

the price of their Next Tattoo.

In the tops of the trees, there was a sudden rustle,

like a stage hand

removing a fake beard, reminding the Actress She was

not yet finished, that there were Stories untold,

waiting on the edge of the stage

where the audience's eyes were a cross between light bulbs

and open graves,

waiting to be filled and ignited,

pleading for someone to explain

the sound of the blood as it rushes

through their ears,

ten thousand ballerinas

like Nijinsky

lost in some preternatural asylum,

the stars being odd beings applauding

the emptines of the celestial dream,

star by star

a frothing enchantment of discontinuous celestials,

every neutron vacant

like the Theatre where she thinks

She must remain,

her eyes the last stage props

to be swept off the stage

and into some grassy field of infinite blindness.

***

On page ninety six,

there is a book that has not been written.

In every sentence, there is a curl of white noise,

a punctuation mark that glows

as if it was created on the edge of Vulcans' Forge,

where the birds whistle in andalusian spanish,

every song a lie

that splashes on Salvador Dali's canvas in nine dimensional

synesthesia,

the architecture of the Palace

transforming into the wings of a Gull,

the Gull becoming a Phoenician purple,

the purple a sound

that cannot be described until after it enters the ear

and spills through the skin

in the motion of a Clock,

moment by moment the hands of the clock

opening like a Bouquet of Flowers

in the heart of a Clown.

***

In the moment of conception,

at the top of the sky,

there is a Vortice of Emanations,

a sapphire

of perpetual fantasias

writhing from void to void.

As the photons balance their disappearance

in the doorway between The Eye

and the Universe,

a cycling Ouroboros

arrives, in perfect time with the ascent

of Gold

through cataclysms of silver,

the filigree of Infinity a sudden flutter of enchanted beings,

none of whom have yet arrived,

their faces unfolding in the forest floor

like a puzzle assembling in the crime scene of Heaven

when the first thoughts of the Archangels

are being described to

the Symphony of Italian Painters,

under some strange shadow

that reminds them of nothing they have seen,

save perhaps

a paintbrush bursting through the Sea

howling blueness of a rare purple estrangement

***

A fairy squall,

on the edge of page 1000,

the mouth of a bird

chewing it's way into the Starlit Canopy

while the punctuation marks

sleep,

high noon in the Imaginary World,

where only the best things happen,

leaving nothing but silence

falling through the unopened eye,

a rare perfume

for the unconsciousness,

just as they predicted in Geneva,

Jung and Freud

amongst the scarabs

as they traveled from century to century

undisduised until the doorbell rings

and from deep within the human eye

comes the Chariot,

whirling with those fires that

can never be seen,

ever, not even by themselves

as they Race

from the End

to the Beginning

like a Vagabond lost in the Funhouse Mirrors

***

A haze of polka dots on the shore of Greece.

Argonauts, perhaps.

Perhaps the light from an Undiscovered television

spinning in some discotheque among the clouds

where Zeus is painting his toenails the color

of Black Swans,

to remind someone of something

that has not yet existed

as the Godz seem often want to do,

their powers

insatiable, indeterminate, undiscovered,

astonishing even themselves, sometimes

as infinity

teaches them

what it means to be stranger than God,

the daydreams of Kurt Godel,

and the schizophrenia of  ballerino Nijinsky

racing against the flow of time

to prove that nothing exists at all,

not even the question mark at the end of this question?

***

in the brightest light,

an open mouth,

like a pterodactyl's beak

or an empty stadium,

waiting for the games to begin,

the Moveable Feast happening at Twice the Speed of Light,

an Octave of Disbelief

where the daydreams of the Crucified

rise like ghosts of the surface of the Lake,

every eye

a dragonfly

the newspapers say should not exist,

gurgling white noise

of beings lost in the undersea empire,

their wisdom

unfamiliar to the Storm Gods

until it is too late,

and the waves become trapped in the center of the Ocean,

just as Plato

planned it,

from Mission Control

Atlantis

***

A Japanese Wind,

in her fingerprints,

where Christopher Columbus is planning to waltz

according to the laws of the Chiraco

a western haiku

escaping the gravity of the Dead Man's heart,

there in the warmth of the soil,

where nothing is finished

and nothing begins,

a strange churning like the belly of a Witch

ten thousand miles

above the curve of the Sky,

parallelograms waiting for Godot,

Godot like a Kite,

his eyelids full of klieg lights,

shining penumbras of disincarnate beings,

speaking to the Moon

as if She was a Geisha,

her smile painted by the white light of Newtonian Physics,

a coil of

road maps,

uncoiling in her Fingertips,

the combination lock that unlocks the combination lock

that is created by the Ghost

in the Machine,

the Machine that built itself,

before anyone realized

it could be done .

***

Inside the forest cave, where the forest has become

a Temple of Ghosts,

styrofoam ghosts that glow like neon moon rocks

purchased in a gift shop in Kansas City,

where the clerk is transposing

Rockabilly from the windowsill radio,

the static intercepting his memories

the way the black light intercepts the strange glances

lost in a discotheque full of dancing roses,

every heartbeat

suddenly bursting into puzzles of synchronicity,

seven billion minuets,

Mozart falling asleep at the Piano,

waking up laughing

as he surely must have done,

when the Mockingbird crashed into the window.

*

From the center of Aldebaran,

a gamma ray opened the mechanism of the Dragon fly Eye

revealing a Theatre of Wings,

shimmering in synchronized denouement

of a Comitragic accident

symbolic of the way the day began,

repeating itself over and over

in endless Fibonacci

until Nicolai Paganini rose from the ground

with a Violin,

unsmiling,

sounded the call for the century of Blue Notes,

a golden strangeness

that erupts around

the Mouth of God,

where the wildflowers are a Temple

of Something that Cannot be Explained,

despite the Weathermen

and the Argonauts

crashing their Ships into the Undiscovered Shore,

sail by sail,

filling their memories

with the first thoughts of Lightning,

like a Storm God

filling it's basket with blueberries

***

At the Zenith of Sleep,

when the Kingdom is full of nothing but Moon Kings

and the Sun is in some birdlike belly

on the other side of the world,

and the Clock

pronounces it does not know what year it is,

and the eyelid quavers open,

a hurricane of fantasias

in delta wave cognition,

the open eye of the closing eye

surrendering it's memory to the starry sky

beyond the ceiling, beyond the altocumulus,

into the place of thinnest living existence,

the atoms are balanced in a waltz

choreographed by mystery itself,

the sounds of the permutations charging all possible worlds

with the sensory wisdom

of the Chameleon,

the moon bursts into shards of moony improbability,

doorways where the Sunflowers

roll into nets of insanity

the insanity that symbolizes the way things are

at the beginning of time,

when everything happened at once ...

***

In her taste buds, a Hawaiian silence

like the waves crashing against the door

where She slept,

twelve eyes gathered around her face

until the world did not exist,

except for that single moment repeating itself

over and over,

her lungs exchanging a wedding vow

with the edge of the sky,

nobody's heart breaking until it was

just too late,

and the glass in the bathroom mirror

frosted over

with the remnants of tears she never wept.

*

It was there, in that echoing echo

of light stitching itself against the wicked emptiness of her skin

the emptiness that remains

after the Last Supper has been finished

and the halos raised against the night sky,

the starlight sent thrushing into the strange

periwinkle of the dove's eye,

a remote control changing everything in the Known Universe

from ten million light years away,

the flesh of the jaguar

like a strange umbrella protecting the

unborn God

from itself

***

The senses of the lost world, a strange treetop

of brains

rolling in an electric hiss

around ten thoughts

that Tesla could not remember,

the ones that fell through his heart

and circulated through the bloodstream

of his being,

leaving their footprints like Ancient Astronauts

dancing in the capillaries

where they found ten trillion angels

waiting,

smiling,

repeating certain mantras in the language of the car thieves and poets,

their tongues tripping like the coral reefs

who know God's name

but do not speak it,

letting the mystery exist

in the mysterious way

that mysteries often have to,

in order to contain

some inside joke, like Shakespeare

writing his name on a stone

at Stonehenge

***

In the fruit of the Orange,

there is a strange jewel, like Buddha's earlobe

shimmering an unsung song

that will never be finished until ten thousand light years

after it has been eaten

by the Radioactive flesh

of Madame Curie,

who knows twelve languages and teaches the parrots

how to stay silent

during the hurricanes,

when the whole world is sleeping

and the sound of the human ear

is as loud as the trees

as they lift their leafy mouths into heaven,

every syllable of God's love

falling like rain,

unfinished

but pulsing like a Thought

that can never be described

but that dwells in the everywhere

always

***

The human skin, a roadmap into the Afterlife.

The spirits assemble,

congregations buried in the ligament

opening their throats to the sunlight

where the chessmen have gathered, their eyes

like raw plums,

waiting for instructions from the Buddha

of Faceless Lightning

*

She circled the mirror in shades of infinite regress,

her eyes,

white diamonds of suspended animation,

like a memory cauterized by wildfire.

*

On the Television they sent ten thousand subliminal messages,

the kind designed to get children

to eat high octane candy until the End of the World,

because everyone knows this is the final, final, final

last offer

Act Now, just do as we say.

*

It was then, in the curve of space around the silence of an otherwise ordinary room

that the light bulb began to flicker

as if it knew something, as if it had something to say

but couldn't quite slow down,

perhaps it is being chased

for reasons unknown.

As the light in the room went from white to yellow to translucent orange

and the sky slipped like a woman's tongue

through the window,

and curled on the floor in imitation of the Cat,

a series of unasked questions began to arrive in the World,

as if they were passengers in some strange caravanserai,

their mouths (all questions have mouths)

open like birds into a rain

that is not falling, but is suspended in the sky

like something painted by Henri Matisse.

*

In the Louvre, there was a docent,

whose eyes were full of Tea and a strange darkness

that gathered everything it could from Tourists eyes,

everything: memories, lost umbrellas, the laughter of children,

the eyes of stray dogs,  dust motes, broken necklaces racing towards

some unfinished heaven --

and kept them in the back of his consciousness

trying to determine how they wound up there,

here in the Louvre,

 where the windowsills

were painted by such famous people

as Degas, Manet, Picasso.  Every painting:

a windowsill.  The eyes of God could peer into the eyes of God.

Flowers could hang like dead men,

suspended upside down, rotating above a bonfire,

trapped in some network of molecules

alizarin crimson, hunter's green, cornflower blue:

every shade of light,

in the Louvre --- a scar of beauty.

***

a passing bird escapes her eye

.

it is the wisdom of Apollo,

leaving near earth orbit and racing into the garden

to remember what it taught the birds

that day

when Socrates slipped into the Smoke of the Sybil,

and memory raced around

the world in a language that Plato could not comprehend,

the Neologisms spinning up from the ground

like spiderwebs, catching thoughts

in circles of light,

prismatic displays of creation,

a strange fire that races from brain to brain

as if anyone knew what the brain could possibly be

Socrates himself

inhaling the breath of the Sybil

as if it was the perfume of Olympus,

sulfur and the strange fruit

swirling in the Temple

until the Sybil began to inhale,

the night stars clouding over

in a whisper, the stars that hush themselves

in a labyrinth,

the labyrinth of birth

a maternity ward spinning in the dark spaces

where nothing happens,

the Zenith of the Mandala

***

When the playwright leapt

off the stage

a sudden burst of insanity,

filtered downstage

revealing, in the egress

of sulci and gyri,

what the world could not explain:

a Minotaur

balancing Jewels

in the Heart of an Actress

whose name was described by a cook book

when the real world decided to disappear

and run through the world disguised as a mirror,

a mirror that knows the threshold of being,

the infinite regress of Light,

the stage directions written by the Ouroborous itself,

where the Wings are pulsed with indeterminate

language,

the gossip of actors

whose tongues are canticles of invisible fire,

tastebuds bursting

with syllables inherited from

the strange fruit of far Arden

***

In the colors of the eyelid

there are chameleon tongues that rise against the silvery

canvas of the sun,

dropping pearls of blue fire

into wishing wells that haunt the world

with their seeming unmitigated normalcy,

as if the entire life of the Other World

was somehow a farce,

which of course.  It neither is nor is not.

In that strange cobblestone where the dragonfly

pursed a trillion chromatophores

the flesh of the daffodils

bursting into white noise,

the moment the airplane ascended through the sky,

a whirlwind cruciform,

the Whale of Jonah, it's belly racing through the sky

like some ancient curse,

revealed on page thirty two

of the Book that contains the Code for Terminal Velocity,

when the last shadow draped it's wing

across the cobblestone

and the dragonfly turned agains the wind

for a moment

and looked into the Eye.

***

In the arboreal synergy,

where the Taoist Lao Tzu

is planting a garden of emptiness,

the crushed ear of the chestnut

is listening

to the human heart

opening on the other side of the earth

where the sea foam is racing

towards the center of the city.

*

At the moment of inextinguishable wisdom,

there is a pause.

The flesh of the earth (wood knots and chlorophyll,

the mandibles of Lightning Bugs, the open eyes of a Child)

recombine to form

something that not even Picasso could stop laughing at,

a palace of Eternity,

the Exoskeleton of Paradise,

a strange river of Green Ones

traipsing through the fingerprint

of a Storm God

whose words are like ferns,

uncoiled by the fire

of the Sun,

a bloody hearted tempest

of hydrogen

***

A strobelike world,

the circadian rhythm of the Gods and the Goddesses,

night and day

a binary pulse like the number Pi

eating itself at the Table of Parallelograms,

where the forest is Haunted

by a Wounded King,

the same one Baba Yaga

found wandering the world

disguised as an Infant,

when the temples were not yet disassembled

trees,

but were still growing, covered with the wild memories

of bumblebees,

the monologues of doves,

the chirpings of Deer,

a song that plays in ultra low frequencies,

when the Ghosts of Eden

are tap dancing on the rim of the pond,

a chalice of disconnected energies,

like a Skull

on the edge of the bonfire

where nothing remains save the ocean

***

When the mannequin

began to speak, it's face like a strange bullseye

blessed by  the palette of

antipathy, the wasteland reverberating

with a type of consciousness chloroformed

and static,

the televisions began to scream in unison,

as if the Desert had been crossed and

the world between the worlds

anointed by the sound of a plastic mouth

arriving on planet earth

having escaped the UFO

on it's way to the Shopping mall,

leaving phosphorescent glimmers,

like price tags glowing like footprints

where the darkness curls as strangely

as a blind cat

in the mirror of the soil,

the heart of the mannequin

pulsing to the rhythm of some

chemical fire,

where the alchemist

turns the Smoke into a Ghost

and the Ghost evolves

like a chessboard full of Inanimate Beings,

waiting for the Game

to Begin,

the Game that Never Ended.

***

A capella,

the dirt is giving birth to the beaks

of piano angels,

black feathers and golden eyes,

racing from the edge of the City

into a Junkyard where the dream of God

is draped in American Lightning,

a rusted duck

that explains the meaning of the dead trampoline

while dancing in a pool of burnt orange water,

when the sky cracks open,

revealing the thundercloud that has been constructed

out of carbon and silicon,

the elemental tapestry

containing a secret code that not even the birds

know how to decipher,

their lungs bursting in the twilight above

the junkyard

like an orchestra of Primeval Mozarts

whose fingertips

race from Star to Star

long after the Sun swallows the world

leaving nothing but the last thoughts

of Madmen

boiling in the green summer ground,

the Junkyard has no explanation

***

an architect

amongst the oak trees

has planted a sun beam where

the many worlds shine,

like the eyes of Neils Bohr

drifting across Copenhagen

one night when Einstein

was sleeping.

The Photons raced towards that shady nook

leaving Pharoahs

dancing in their wake,

just at the moment a doorbell

rang in Athens an Cairo,

extinguishing the candlelight on the mantle

in a room of Cafe Procope,

the Parisians

lost like a shadow of someone

whose name nobody knows,

those old ones that race through the streets

with some weird smile glistening in their eyes,

thinking of the mysterious world

below the city.

A skull there, coming unbalanced,

the heartache of Voltaire,

rotating in the catacombs where the priests began

to realize

there is nothing to realize save the permanent

revolution

of the Earth,

like a chandelier spinning above

an empty ballroom,

the weathervane pointing to the Unfinished Heaven

where an Arc

of Light

is dreaming of Isaac Newton.

***

in the heart of Felicity,

a wide eyed cat

is balancing it's whiskers between

Amsterdam

and the Moon, like some acrobat

in a straightjacket

whose smile cannot be contained

but chases the strangeness of the world

down alleyways named after French Existentialists,

until the moment the Church Bells Ring

and everything freezes.

*

In that strange foam that gathers on the edge of the eyelid

there are crystals, like moon rocks,

humming in oscillations that occur

on the boundary zone between Heaven and Earth,

the Real World and the World Becoming.  These crystals

lacrimose,

swivel and pivot on the raw embers of chemical fury

that steer themselves in strange light out of the center of the brain

through the skull

in electromagnetic channels,

until they reach the human eye

and discover

there is nowhere left to go

except perhaps

 into the Moonlight

*

At the edge of the sky, the ions are like a trampoline

containing mysterious passengers

drifting,

some of them elven, perhaps snowflakes,

racing into the flight path of Santa Claus,

20,000 miles into the

night, gold dust like the glitter of some

inhuman eye

*

The moment they crawled out of the ocean,

they began questioning the flowers

as if they knew what was going on, why the Blue World

was Green and who was watching them

on the edge of the sky,

and if they had to go any further to

discover anything else,

or if they could just rest at the place

where the Tide

began.

There was no answer, just the rustling of the wind

in the reeds at the edge of

the Ocean

***

Three silences, like the laughter of

Zeus: begin in counterpoint to the smiles

that rise in response to a whisper

that remains lost in the doorway where

the first buddha of the buddhaless buddha

has arrived, disguised as an emptiness of wrinkles

on Her forehead.

Someone, we know, is listening:

a satellite dish pointed toward the beginning of time,

when the photons did not know whether to clap

or run

screaming for the exit as the Audience

burst into a Godlike burning,

turning the Lies of Heaven over and over in the center

of their brains,

as if the human soul was a bonfire

and there were still songs to sing,

after the doorway was closed

and the whisper

transformed into another wrinkle

on Her face.

*

There were cats gathered on the rooftop.

A purple caped masquerade of petunias whirling down the

stony egress

of God's heart,

lighting bioluminescent angels with the promise

they would bring the bumblebees

into a psychic boil,

on the edge of the Sundial

where Merriweather was suspended by a lost thought,

incapable at the moment,

of knowing anything at all,

not even what color the sun is.

*

Inside the greenhouse, there was a pile of dirt

that was signaling the Lighthouse at the end of time

to remind it of the Nightmare

that is contained inside every pinecone,

a white bloom of druids, racing through

a chlorophyll conscience

in patterns of triskadekaphobia,

a point in the spiral

from which the Green Man escapes,

running down rafters of light into the sudden

zoo cage of Sleep.

***

A Coven of eyeless Ones

whistling a string of zeros and ones

through the ghost town where Chopin

made the Blue Note contemplate it's Birth

from ten thousand light years away,

in a place of space and time

that not even Nostradamus

could have prophesied,

has churned the belly of the Turquoise Starlet

into a cauldron of mechanical birds

each one bearing the wounds of God

like invisible hearts

in their beaks,

where the sound of the forest is wondering

how to begin the tale of the tale

that has never begun.

*

In the eyes of the Eyeless Ones,

their memories grow like tangled roots

enveloping ligaments with the vines of blackberries,

tripping the feet of starry tarantulas

into Shangri La

that is neither here nor there,

but scattered around the world

on rays of light

and riddles,

the paradoxes of Flower faced Vagabonds

who got crushed by the Banks

when the rest of the world was sleeping,

leaving their skeletons

draped across the world,

reminding the Eyeless Ones

of flags that somehow never fly,

but grow from the ground like Portraits of the Locust

and Illusion.

*

On the edge of that city, there is a Well of Blue Diamonds,

where the Fishermen are sending their children to observe

the Games of the Angels.

Around the sky, God has placed a dozen castles.

The Word Races from throat to throat

as if it was a Moonbeam

knocking on the Face

of a Supercomputer.

*

Deep in the Supercomputer, Yahweh

is resting, finally escaping his own interrogations,

like a toy

that has gone to rest on the bottom of the Ocean Floor,

it's redness like a bloodstained ruby

the sharks themselves

dare not to worship,

but circle,

like Priests, their upside down smiles

inviting the Supercomputer

to devise a new algorithm,

one that divides by Zero

the way that King Solomon explained

that day in Ninevah,

in theh market where the Strange Book Was Opened

before anyone else could read.

***

Inside the Blackstone, a Phoenix of Unfinished Fires

suddenly remarks to the Wildflower of Granite

about the way the Moon draped it's tongue across

the casket of God,

reminding the Last Man

of a dream thirsty Madwoman, straight  from Genoa,

the one that chased Columbus across Europe

her eyelids like stone, the sacraments

of those prophets lost by the Vatican,

trapped between the Sistine Chapel

and Las Vegas.

The Phoenix answered with a burst of ragtime piano,

leaving blue notes scattered like feathers

across the Infinite Void,

which then fluttered gently to the ground as if it was

a roadmap,

every Highway an Artery rippling through Columbus

fingerprints

until he reaches the edge of Spain,

where his foot disappears,

and the Tide

becomes a shining blue madness,

every wave a shimmering hyena of God's delirium,

begging the Man

to Enter,

like Ulysses, the Minotaur explained

the Ten Trillion Lies of Zeus,

the Sybils that were hidden in the Womb,

where waiting on the far side of the most dangerous

night in Existence,

was an open field,

a place of golden grass and

mystery.

*

When the Ocean begins to sing,

the rocks in the side of the cliff develop

the face of Ancient Mariners,

the eyes of the Rock absorb

the marrow of the flesh the way an anarchist

absorbs the Moment,

and the wine dark tear drop bursts through teh skin

revealing a cruciform.

The rock itself is made of nothingness multiplied by multiples

of nothingness that know nothing about nothingness not at all

the nothingness that is

not nothingness,

that speaks not of nothingness, that never knows nothingness,

but that still turns the Face of Plato

into a cosmological void, quavring with the mysterious rites

Eleusis,

where the Argonauts have discovered America

again.

***

Incandescent Emerald Eloquence,

escaping the curled turbulent contours

of a country starling,

indelible empathies trembling in the lost western wheat,

where nobody has discovered

God's smile

hunting itself in the mirror of the blue ground,

an easter egg that gives birth to easter eggs

every moment of every day,

just the way that Christ tried to explain to the disciples

when they werent drinking.

*

And in that strange brightness of the eye

when the green leaves are brighter than

your Grandmother's golden smile,

and Her hair has erupted in a Whirl of Chicken Dumplings,

the Cuckoo clock

gone supernova in the windowsill,

inviting in the Dragon of Imaginary Endings,

the whole room

suddenly hinges on a single syllable

as if David Copperfield

was pulling Rasputin

from outside his Ear,

making Van Gogh Laugh his way back into the field of Sunflowers

where waiting,

was the Ghost of Marilyn Monroe,

painted by numbers that have

escaped the Number Line

and writhe in the sky,

thinking they too

are Sunflowers

Yanaguana.

Something leaps from the Curandero's glow in the dark tongue ... Is it ... the Yanaguana?

Humming: butterfly thrum of pre- Columbian fires & floods ... Yanaguana?

Cathedrals of light curled in purses of vegetable fire. Yanaguana!

Eyes within Eyes of unfamiliar Apostles shining in fractals of logos on vineyards of the divine epidermis. Yanaguana.

Yanaguana ...the shibboleth of Crocodiles?

Yanaguana, Feathered Serpent speaking in Tongues?

The river: She flamencos like a margarita soaked tongue down the heaven of river banks bursting with sun - thirsted flora,

boiling the tetragammatron into flowery birthday cakes of inhuman soul, trembling intensities of the madness of the meadow messiah,

footsteps of G-d tripping in the tides of sunlight reverberating in the dream lit depths of your iris in anarchy

of the vortices of the riverside roll; one discovers sorcerers splashing in newborn nursery rhymes,

the mossy mouth of a Greek Goddess bathed in phoenix fire

wrapped in magic carpets around the death wish of the Genie, in the South Texas biosphere

whose presence is whisked by brooms of wind into verdant carnivals of post - transcendental fandango.

The river bends -- in the south of the city of San Antonio ---

and sheds it's Riverwalk - Restaurant skin & becomes *real* again,

complete with the rushing stony churn of brookish babbles, freckle - footed fairies,

witchy wishing wells of the emerald God's favorite cemeteries , where lurking like Ruby Slippers

are the compound eyes & enzyme haunted mandibles of shapeshifting Spider - Kings,

cavorting amongst the stones & angel fists of pearls whispering your mother's name in the brewing psychopomp;

hypnogagic epitaphs of dying dream devils tattooed in whiskers of blueberry fueled spiderwebs

with ligaments of suprahuman consciouness rippling in the hot flesh of the rare earth that singes your nostrils

with the underworld Queen's spiritual pyromania.

Riding the bicycle, the world is a dizzying carouselambra of parallax --- motion within motion,

unfinished ideas of evolution's brushes whirling,

whispers circling close to the ground, pirouetting soldiers in silent sweeps of silvery sloth,

passengers born without warning into the eye of the Needle,

under the bone faced nocturne of the songless bridge,

tiptoeing into the gopher cave of mammalian insanity, drifting on the asphalt hell of the parking lot,

Yul Brynner goose stepping on the Sea of Tranquility,

life bleeding poems of energy into the hieroglyphic weirdness of time, inverted with the logic of God ----

where the cows suck turquoise dust motes from the eyes of chanting crickets,

vapors & clouds of condensation, pink with nursery rhymes --- trembling with the secret diseases --

Lucifer's wisdom foaming on the lips of an eyeless dog hunting your soul from some distance,

eyes zigging toward's saturn's blacklit gravity, the permanent descent of shadows

into crescents of the Judge of Endless Springtime's UFO colored crown,

like God's omnivorous stomach, pulsing in the dirt & styrofoam broiled afterlife ---

where trails left by mysterious strangers on their way to knows who where --

are like the choreographed insanity of vagabonds,

clover kilts sprouting in the tide of the Irish Buddha,

Sky scrapers of Elms fingering the blue sky as if it was a bellydancers vagina

and the Universe was bursting into wartime poetry, sea shanty clouds dripping with the whiskey of clown mouths,

and your feet tripping --- out of control, like Frank Sinatra in a Tibetan funhouse tango ---

strange pathways erupting in the ground like the varicose veins of that Saintly Bearded Woman, whose soul

pulses in slipstreams of the ESP one finds in the world of the unchained promethean phantoms

of the Eden of endless free will.

The bicycle you ride, becomes the Resistance.

While riding, one gets the same sensation of being on horse -- only one's Self *is* the Horse.

The Oxygen coursing through your lungs is the new Petrol.

You sense the world in zigs, zags, zips, winding synergies of momentum. Propellations of time & space.

Glimpses of Insects in slow motion --- honeybees in wind tunnels,

broken glass shimmering like the eyes of a fallen ballerina

-- the open sky looming in slow motion of soil tumbling under bumblebees wings,

as the wasps flirtwith your earlobes in swathes of yellowy entropic

hunger.

On the side of the road, the Sermon on the Mount echoes in the passing engines.

One hears Giant whispers; Frankenstein warns of tires ripping open in bloody roadkill,

screaming burns of the Sudden Death on asphalt.

The Traffic is straight out of Stephen King. Eighteen wheelers smile like the Machine Gods of Limbo.

But; when you pass, out into the country,

where the world is blue & green & carpeted with the fantasias, of the Fairies;

your spirit becomes a silent Canoe, purposeful, unbound, united in wholeness,

slipping through the mythopoetic courses of divine, antedeluvian laughter.

*

Just South of S.W. Military road --- past the Insane Asylum and Brooks City Base ---

your bicycle brings you into the riverside,

where the earth sweeps open into a sulking tongue of God drunk -on God's drunkenness,

the chambered expanse of fields scintillating with life ...

& your eye hunts miraculous fractal embouchures, lacunae, whirlwinds of celestial being in thunderous descent,

down slopes rippling in muddy muscles, grassy slants of fire - ant ziggurats,

billowing wonderlands & winged chessboards of the first world

shimmering in like the belly skin of the Leviathan.

The river is like the perfectly spilled bottle of tequila; the Fountain of Vermouth.

the Strange Worm at the Bottom of the Bottle? is your soul. Drink it & you will understand.

The Thunder Gods leap in the slow crawl of mists & evaporations, tears of heaven jumping into your freckles,

some jewel faced Jezebel chewing on your dreams.

You are the sound of Infinity, rushing In the slow motion of human flesh.

The earth becomes the furnace & the womb of some thermodynamic palace of broken symmetry.

This Yanaguana river has fangs. Slick blue teeth sliced like lightning in a mason jar, striking a house painted in whiskey.

Snakesin glistens like fool's gold in the grass; the tuxedo of the Muses.

Feathers of light drip in baroque rises, vertigo of dinosaur ghosts rising in the convective trebles of electromagnetic love songs.

The watery grave looms on the river side. Lily pads full of forgotten sailors

tremble with the footstep of amphibian priests --

far beyond the civilization of man made clocks & ordinary machines that dissolve like sugar pills on

the Messiah of the First Heaven's starlit soaked tongue.

Here, when you ride; the oxygen pouring into your blood: doubt is negated.

The perilously delicate exoskeleton of Heaven of the Real World --- turns your brainstem inside out.

You become a grasshopper. There are UFO's bathing in phosphorescence of your eyelids.

You hope, desperately --- this place is not infected with the trappings of the modern world.

There's construction. On the dirt road: Cranes, machines, rocks & trucks.

So you ride through the gravelly path, crunching wheels spinning in the springtime heat,

balancing curiosity with the urgency of Becoming, flowing with energies of life that sending you -- where?

Tierra del Fuego? Who knows. Point your soul South, into the lush greenness of Time undressing in the graveyard poem of the biosphere of mirage.

The ride here, in these S. Texas fields of wildflowers, is simple, not too intense.

Just rolling, drifting, a line of feverish beings --- smiling, fluttering on rivers of energy in sudden Wind.

Your lungs burn like goldmines. Every breath you take, you sense something moving through you.

This is not mere respiration. This is the journeywork of Birth. and death. Which way are you going?

You wonder.

The river is freckled with the journeywork of herons & cranes, ducks, finches, sparrows, ravens, Mockingbirds

--- some pretty intense solid black ducks,

flying with unearthly intensity toward some mysteriously duckish purpose.

The sense of the riverside, is of great openings. The forgotten Texas, endless converging valleys veering southward.

Green tongues licking your heart in Soul to Soul combat, inviting you to dance across the

Belly of the Unknowable Southern Endlessness. Secret spaces --- Castles of Pinecones.

Tents of Oak Leaf Princes bivouacing in the front lines of eternity.

In the city, beyond the incandescent lights -- where the lights fall back into the sky,

where the starlight becomes a Menorrah ---

Ziggurats of Secret Kingdoms hide like the poetic conscience of Otherworldly shamans.

Strange passages of labyrinths illuminated by weird smiles of semi -- visible beings.

Temples of Synchronicity constructed by oppositionally defiant mystics whose quests in the 21st Century are those

of Genies bursting out of the Bottled insanity of the Television.

Riding the bike while listening to Electronic Techno --- the world assumes shapeshifting qualities.

Butterfly yodels. Ladybugs howl. Treetops chant your Grandmother's funniest name.

You become aware of the curling bubbles of Witch n*****s bouncing through the echo chambers of Heaven in descent.

The cartoonish bellydance of beings hidden in antedeluvian wedding veils, the eyes of the Madonna --- grow everywhere.

Shrouds of monkish shadow run in rivulets of rattlesnake faced flowers & the sensation of infinite pulses converging,

in the Circus of Imaginary anarchies of the underbrush ---

the motion of sunlight into your skin: it feels like Nuns bathing in the River Styx.

the language of gossiping water moccassins whispers the Book of Revelations into your eardrums.

***

Hades, like the wisdom of God through the curling river runs: the flowering heart of the undead Kingdom

lurking with the haunted presence of the very real, Catholic Missions.

Mission San Juan Capistrano.

Cadillacs of Catholic strangers perpetually arrive, the destination of the endless everywhere.

Buses full of Kansas tornado refugees idle. New York tourists tiptoe in high heels, wondering where they really are.

***

On Bicycle tires, the sense of being raw meat is intense.

The roadside wooshes & thunders with Godzilla fires; rushing escalators spin in the Purgatory of gargantuan velocities.

The dinosaur faced 18 wheelers seem to be driven by faceless beings. One thinks of James Dean,

spinning with astonishment into the sudden terror of the final crash, punching the face of Infinity ---

the sudden bursting of the skin & the plunge into the abyss of infinite mystery.

You move on. You ride like Ulysses,

cascading down the dirt trails, launching poems into the riverside breaks of the empty field where begins the

Catholic Mission San Juan Capistrano,

which brings into conscience the sudden sum of millions mythological spirits, from Christ to Quetzlcoatl,

native women barefoot, belly laughing under the birthday cake of the Sun ---

arriving at the mission; you sense the instantaneous unbalancing of consciousness ---

the sudden incomprehensible surrender -- no logic. Just go. You will be there, inside. It makes sense.

across the broken stone walls; trees & roses surrounded by grassy paths both empty & devoid of acolytes,

but rippling with the ghastly impermanent footsteps of the 21st Century. Tourists in the Missionary afterlife.

The field like an open mouth full of Conquistador's golden teeth,

strange doorways leading into El Dorado in every direction

Devils dancing in golden thought sombreros, Priest eyes shining darkly in the Springtime Sun ---

behind every tree, birds speak the forgotten

language of the Curandero, those shamanic beings poised between all possible worlds ---

living in the convergence of Communion with the Christ of the American mytho-poetic wilderness

balancing jungle fueled rainbows in the Suspended Disbelief of the Eden that grows wild in the human soul

living, always --- in the World of the Worldless Worlds.

***

The most sudden & shocking strangeness of Mission Espada is the Ring of Cactus encircling the Wooden Cross,

compelling the heart into sudden awareness of the Garden of the Green Flood.

a point of simplicity, multiplying the pain & sorrow of Christ Crucified with the vegetable urge of the Earth,

bursting lights of carnival worlds of the living Soil with the Incarnate word of the Sky ---

one sees Golgotha churning with skulls, the apostilic trepidation ---

the shed skin of the modern prometheus rising in wonder ---

the Salvific haunt of the Martyr surrounded by the Cactus in

the mission yard, the Crucifix of Time balanced in the Thorns of Space ---

the scene impresses one like the pose of a Burning Ghost ---

some Rain - Fleshed Divinity rising in rings of vegetable thunder, endless concentric warnings,

luring one into the deeper involvement ---

God's daydream. Infinity wrapped in hallowed hollowness & the transcendental terror of a Life buried inside the Crown of Mystery

supra- conscious, the living metaphor: conjuring the thought of TS Eliot's line from The Hollow Men:

"This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man's hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this

In death's other kingdom

Waking alone

At the hour when we are

Trembling with tenderness

Lips that would kiss

Form prayers to broken stone."

***

a deep sighing wind --- like the lightning strike strangeness of that sultry jewel toned Catholic romance ---

suddenly one is imagining Shakespeare inscribing secret codes into the King James Bible,

the fist of a Jesuit Priest bursting from the ground like the Empire State Building in King Solomon's teenage daydreams.

the Cactus, the Crucifix --- wow --- a halo of pain & weirdness.

Thinking suddenly of William Butler Yeats in Texas -- Salvador Dali's bloodthirsty beret,

Conquistador's eyelids, cheekbones dripping with roses of maroon sorrow in the twilight of the coast of Spain,

looking into some untellable future of Secret america, the Mexico of Volcanic hymens,

Aztec corn Gods migrating in the eyes of complete strangers drifting in the heat from Mexico, into Texas,

with the thought somehow,

of Jerusalem. How?

The great questions: what were the natives thinking, when living in these missions?

The so called "indians".

The Coahuiltecans.

and, where is eternity going with this? It's always shocking.

One turns into the depths of the desert. One asks the great question: Isaiah's "Son of Man, will these bones live?"

Time burns open the brain in wombs & curtains of mysteries revealed.

One senses the green eyes of the the Infinite Female.

Raindrops pregnant with the pulse of everywhere going everywhere.

The earth growling with a green belly & the flowery mustaches of the End of Time.

Golden soil. Pebbles bursting like navels of Prophets. Starlit skeletons throned in floods of living nectar.

Sparrows fluttering under the eaves with twigs & straw in beaks like yellow hammers ---

nests full of eggs that will crack open like the eyelids of the Greek god Pan.

priestly ravens perched on the Crown of the Cross, cawing INRI.

**

The church rugs are woven with the dusty blue - black thundering threads of serpentine spirits,

walls glowing with light of endless birth,

the scent of statues & thoughts too profound to be spoken --- outside,

the hearts of raccoons pulsing in the painted brush ---

thoughts of the New America in the Christlike pause on the pew.

Utopian personal psychologices shedding wisdom in some unbelievably slow motion prayer - puzzle of the ordinary world lost in the strangeness of space and time.

Eden, Golgotha, the Here & Now? San Antonio, the City that will never change in the nameless eternity of Texas,

even as the 21st Century disappears like the River of Thought into the infinity of the Grass

and the pink cactus blooms ignite like the toes of Cupid & Psyche, whose wings are lit by the angelic light of worlds

born before the Big Bang, when the earth goddess flesh boiled curiousity in the Godly pot,

mystic terror & surreal phantoms of endless children dancing into the apocalyptic Golgotha of the Here & Now,

--- the paradox of Womb & the Casket, the funeral of Laughter that does not end.

Each living being surrenders it's mouth into mouths of outlandish energies suspended into the darkness of the starry void, mystery evoked, the reality anointed.

The cactus / crucifix of Mission Espada is quite intensive:

the transcendental mirage ... a hallucinatory howling of sunburnt wood, a place for St. Paul, St. Peter.

The ground of the cacti glows with sadomasochistic fugues. Strange fantasias of sorrow & vegetable drunkenness.

Wounded flesh spiraling in the void of blue bellied sky,

the ungardened glow of God in hungered agape,daisy souled white butterflies,

dancing through the monstrous stone leviathans,

every footstep like a punctuation mark trod in the optic chasm of the Curandero,

memories of Salvation's children, Clowns lost in the post - historical mystery Christendom &

the Modern City history converging in this, the exoskeleton of the Priestly hopes of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Saint stroll. Hearts scorched by the Temptation of St. Anthony, preaching to Trout.

The Church here is not the stained glass of Europe --- but the flowering strangeness of the psychotic Ezekiel,

barefoot & hunting the love of angelical beings, chariots spinning in white stone & thought darkened wood,

burnished turquoise copper crosses punched in doors,

with the wilderness itself seeming like a Greek architecture of Platonic geomtries where

the Stations of the Cross turn living in your skin,

the compass of history spinning in meaningless directions,

every moment of your own life breaking with sudden philosophical insight & endless Imitatio

with the lightning strike recognition of Christlike inside the Temple of the Human Heart ---

the weird power of the fire faith.

Blue eyed corn Locusts, sweeping in plagues of contagious mirage ---

intoxications of humility moving in the great silence, person to person, the movements of the Living

with rumors of wild honey coursing through the green veins of grass.

Eyes of women, the eyes of men --- tourists in the Universe flickering in the folding curtains of stone & flower

Red face women with God - haunted foreheads. The robes of the Chameleon walking into a mirror.

Thunder - sermons trapped on spider mouths.

Monks fists, closing the Mission Gates, spinning in the slow motion of the sunset,

a hypnotic contemplation of human history, whispers lost inside the Otherworldly presence of mystery, mystery, mystery,

Human mortality witnessed in the moment of recognition of a bead of sweat rolling down your cheek

while the Crucifix just stands.

Candle lit stars flicker. Cicadas churn sonatas of unfinished violins,

drums of the shaman thrumming in the river Yanaguana, tequila teardrops licked by the Lovers lost in Texas twilight ---

the spirits of wandering Coahuiltecans

simultaneously balanced between Popocapetl & Jerusalem ---

Down south of Mission San Juan Capistrano,

the wooden bridges of trails ensorcel in delicate tripping tricks, the sweet greening broils of exploding riverside flora.

Ferns, tendrils, intricate tapestries of the infinitely unknowable: beetles, ants, weird birds,

crushed bird skeletons & gypsy tambourines

purchased as souvenirs from the World of the Ever Living Soul.

The white Ibis of myth suddenly bursting into the nakedness of the sunburnt sky.

the sunlight, the brilliant face that none of us can see --- in constant mirage of unfolding energies,

trampoline hearted beings tap - dancing on the edge of your endless Eyelid,

rising & falling while witnessing the trillion hummingbird hearted embers of that mysterious Quetzlcoatl,

love & clouds, thunder & compassion,

converging in the dolorous penumbra of virgin eyelashes weeping Life - generating tears

while the secret word incarnate, Lost the first Church of Infinite Immortality: when

the Mockingbird pauses on the Crucifix. Wings flutter a Godlike wink.

Stones chisel the eyes, full of Christian graffiti. Teenage love wandering through the desert romance of the Holy Cross ---

where Wasp nests wisp in the statue of the Madonna's stone robe ---

with the single silvery blue spider web, like a muscle of moonlight,

bridged from the bloom of the potted Roses, clutching infinity in thirst & hunger,

the melting votive candles of the Virgin of Guadalupe --

igniting the quiet light in the sky of endless prayers,

thoughts of infinite thought, time running timeless marathons of dream- light lit by being being being in your blood,

whirls ascending whirl in convergent natures --

Bibles of wisdom in pure colors, haunted cheekbones of Light & shadow ---

the parabolic parables of paradox suspended in the Rivers of Stillness & Silliness of Heaven,

with flowery footsteps & endless Spirits born in the ever beginning.

****

The Queen of the modern American Heart.

One of the Goddesses. Of Rock Hudson & Johnny Cash & James Dean & Elvis & Sinatra & doughboys & plowmen & hippie mechanics & transcendental housewives & who knows who & the Queen of England & Yul Brynner, Hemingway & Sylvia Plath & Einstein & Grandmothers & Marilyn Monroe & Every One Other.

an Epic sensory being possessed with Ultra Secret Wisdom.

The culmination of three centuries of the Universe asking itself To Be or Not to Be, She's Shakespeare's first best bet, bringing it all back home --

the dark horse with ultraviolet eyes, running off the race track & swooping us into the zero gravity of her heart -- Mare Tranquilatum, where she is Sovereign & undefined.

The ballerina of the Muses. Every ♥ surges with phoenix fire, while caught in the Cupidic blaze of those Violet Eyes.

The Serpentine Valentine; teaching Rudolph Valentino how to blus.

Venus in Furs. But those eyes? Is she from here?

Isis Incognito, Aphrodite Disincarnate.

Incomprehensible, Inescapable. Clear faced splendor.

The Mysterious Love, temple of Endlessness engineered by which architect, with how many mansions

sequestered in the Queendom of her cellular nuclei?

From agape to amore, fury to curiosity in revolving doors of the spectrum of being ...

her emotions are the cauldron & the crucible.

Her voice, a lullaby to the Prophets of the Human condition.

Her eyelids: Christmas garland discovered inside the Kings Chamber of the Great Pyramid.

Laughter like Church bells in a Jungle populated by the creations of Dr. Seuss.

Her face: a strange glowing Lagoon, brewing with who knows what weird & beauty haunted creatures of the Immortal & Ever Unfinished Human Soul.

She seemed always to be ... poised & paused in the strange space between the divine Imagination & the audience's Soul --- existing in perpetual motion, like a spiritual acrobat at the still point of the Edge of the Stage --- not just merely "acting", but ***acting upon *** the Conscience of Man.

Her wisdom: controlled expeditions into our collective Comprehension. Roles of complexity in which the Chameleon of her actor's Spirit could seize control over our being and through some intervening mode of her celestial presence -- reveal what we know, what we don't & challenge our understanding of Life in a heartbeat.

She is the embodiment of an exquisite elegance, teetering on tightropes of Mirth or Fury. Behind her face lurked ... a presence ... by observing her being --- one gets the impression of the presence of Several beings, acting in concert to prove the truth of One.

She embodied the Troupe of myriad archetypes.

She had the special talent in which her profound observation of the human condition gave even her subtle movements the richest clarity of intent & purpose.

She brought to the Circus of our Senses the playfulness of a lioness hurling Lightning Bolts in

a trillion directions, then observing the effects through the echolocating thunders of her being...

One sees in her left cheekbone: a doll-house populated by Greek Sybils.

The cadence of her tongue invokes the poetess Sappho riding UFO's through the Venusian Starlight.

Her eyes move in orchestrated visions through our sensibility like Emily Dickinson on peyote, who, while quoting Shakespeare to Charlie Chaplin in an echo chamber --- reminds us of the Quick turn, the pregnant pause, the power of suggestion, the voodoo hurricane of the human personality ---

Her femininity was truly twin twilight, roiling with endless jewel toned Curtains; masked & mercurial stirrings of monologues & rumors of gossip & & soliloquys of silence, undiscovered emotions beyond the grasp of adjective.

Her presence, like some Helen of Troy turning Pirate commando, seizedthe Captain's wheel of those one thousand ships & turned our Senses into the Sunlit sea of some ancient Hollywood where She finds her long lost twin, Ophelia, escaped into the coconut milk moonlight of a Tahitian Nunnery.

In this Theater of Being --- she delivered us --- Spectators or flock? --- out of the placidity of our grazing, into the still point of our gazing, our intellects whirring in the fun-house mirror of her wisdom & Intuition.

She had that capacity to prove the incredible nearness of the Farther Shore by luring us into the World beyond the World--- the Lost world, the mytho-poetic world ---- not by mere superficial seduction of the senses --- but rather by the enticement of our sensibilities through sheer intensity of Spirit.

She wove; the tapestry of worlds, a richly profound challenge to our comprehension of the dream within a dream within the real.

In every role behind the role, her presence -- was guided by motives in vast arrays of comprehension --- conscience, empathy, confusion, control --- the bemusement of the human Soul, using her powers of creation & comprehension to chart the course of what the angels call Soul through the miracle of Her art.

She will be missed, She will be celebrated, but always, She will Be.

***

On the event horizon of the UFO --- the Uterus of Heaven spirals with a randomnicity of crowns in the still point of the transcendental crucifixion.

The night Sky triples, rippling into the love songs of white noise and resonant jabberwocky, iterations of the face of God that swarm with photons pregnant with Bodhissatva laughter.

a cloud of freckles chants the quadratic equations of Limbo. She worships the atomic structure of her long dead Mother, opening her skin to the starlight as it falls in unbroken rhythms into the pale blue vertigo of the endless tomorrow.

Virgin isotopes chase memories of the first Buddha, dripping flowerettes of Eternity into the empty fields of their own birth. Heliotropic eyestalke of ten trillion angelical witnesses gasp in oscillations of infinite imagination. The morning sunlight quivers along the codices of Lucifer's fingerprints. There are Cathedrals of the lost algorithm.

Silent trills of unborn beings flower in radioactive sutras around the vulva of God. A chalice pours random numbers into the void. Her soul blushes like the salty blue fire of flamingo wings. Algebraic fevers of the Eden of the human heart ignite in a flourish of ecstatic hungers across the empyrean soil, bringing Mozart's tear stained fingertips into a boil of starlit cosines in the butterfly's pulse.

In explosions of unfinished sanity, the seagull's eye is a discotheque of electromagnetic splendors.

a flock of photons bathes itself in the Virgin's breast milk. Her soul turns drowsily around on carousels of unwritten poetry. The first Quark hallucinates the birth of a wrinkle on it's Grandmother's forehead.

Love trembles in the membrane potential of a fairy tale eye. In the strangest uncertainty of spacetime, the ghost of a Neutron balances a courtyard of probability clouds in the rushing estuaries of an antelope's capillaries.

The skeleton of Time sprouts like God in the grassy wires of the television graveyard.

At the end of the world, Heaven anoints the eyes of unborn infants into frothy whitecaps of Unwritten Bibles.

The haunted Babylonion dream orchestra organizes the breath of purple things deep in the wishing well of her ovaries.

as the gamma rays of Limbo flood the gordian knot of non local consciousness, pores of her memory flare open into permanent paradox.

From a dozen miles away, the city skyline churns with lightning and sirens, tricking newborn integers into leaping through the rooftops on wings of transcendental equations, inverting the world of Ideas into ecosystems of pure computational ecstasy.

Neutrons of the Woman's eggshell colored skin begin to chant; the Universe arrives, dancing into the wound of wounds that has no beginning, middle or end

***

Brahma's life wish --- whirling formlessly around the enchanted architectures of Being ---

permeates the Goddess' thought - colored fingernails with

Secret Codices of Love

--- intimations of the Infinitely Infinite Infinity

are really really really real.

Points arrive. Imaginary beings assemble

in the newborn child's opening eye, just as all parallel lines converge.

Collapse of the waveform.

Circle bounds Sphere of illuminated Fractal Fractals and the

World of Broken Dreams assembles in the Temple of the Here & Now.

Down the street, the White beards rise & fall like Serpent skin,

faces breaking into beads of Glassy mystery

beaching in the heaven of human flesh.

Fruit bursts in floods of endless being

born the edge of everywhere. where you are, right now.

Her eyes ignite with sweet swanlike swishing,

thought - crushing clouds

climb down spines of hot hunger, spiraling into Time, Time, Time.

Elope, the Song of Sirens. Gurgling basson of golden rushes ---

riverbank reeds, trout faced angels

rise, curling their souls into ligaments of inconstant ripples in the

field of soils churning with unborn rainbows.

Rising angels churn; by the convenience store,

in larva of the UFO of Human Souls --- her heart is assembling

theories of God, like misplaced words

tramping sentence fragments in the Valleys of the Human Genome.

Trillions of amino acid shaped Prophets leap from the silence of the hieroglyphics up, into the mouth of the starry sky

from the runway of her feathered tongue.

Upon Winter, the nightingale Mothers the Summery rose.

a baby's fist plunges from the sky.

The number line blooms. Lightning,

luminescent lemniscates & the opalescent flood of the insanity of freedom.

Wisdom plunges like Hawaiian ghosts on words of blood surfing enzymes,

Christs poetry - flavored thunderstorms quilting

Grandmotherly Nouns of transcendent consciousness

into Nameless unities of the Perfection of Love.

Holy laughter tunnels into snail charmed daffodils ---

burning irons of the musculature of the Kingdom of the Fae

with eternal wisdom upon races,

Gods dancing in light storms of the nucleus of the Here & Now,

new born suggestions

leaping fish - like through the starry Uterus of her Eye.

The unwritten Mystery ignites in the punctuation marks of the daily newspaper.

On the numberline of Infinitely Spontaneous Simultaneity, at the fractal edge of human Being --

the air in the Himalayas begins to rotate in a wild swirl around the bonfire of her trillion dollar rose.

Her lips pucker up in pearls and pomegranates, thunderclouds pursing the wet dreams of Cobras.

Supernovas strike like Shakespeare singing to dust motes in the Kansas flower hotel ---

from across the maelstrom of intellectual fevers the Devil's heart becomes a haunted pulpit,

churning with strange lights & the fleshy receptors of the Church of the Insanity of Love.

The universe inverts. Caterpillars anoint themselves, cell by cell, into Priests of Oceanic Eardrums

swooshing in the Electromagnetic Rubicon of Time.

A Transylvanian supermodel howls the tetragammatron

in the deep green halogen ground zero of impermanently impermanent impermanence.

A trillion miles of descent begins. Spelunkers unite in the Eyes of Christ.

Freckled Nuns swoop like canteloupes through the buddhist supermarket of an orphan's central nervous system.

The palm trees sway gently, echoing Brigitte Bardot's fingertips across piano colored

sidewalks full of old men whispering nothing nothing nothing.

Nada hurls blue flags into the terra incognita of her time - eating freckles,

the Chapel of Peril is bathed in the Poetry of the Unknown Unknowns & the supernal iridescence of cricket laughter.

Trembling Saints lie in pools of bloody disbelief on the hospital floor.

In the open wounds of Soliloquys of Life --- the Nurse, lost inside the Memory Palace of Hell --

witnesses Mnemosyne's unbridled phantasm burying her children under eyelids of fool's caskets.

The nine faced bride turns mute paranoid stutters; the wedding cake explodes on the Priests tongue.

Worlds of inquisition thrive on Dog gossip.

Whooshing secrets escape like acrobats on the thin green garland of synchronicities.

On the edge of the Bed; She presses injured vowels into the skin of the World's endless unbecoming.

The cavernous loss of the human imagination spins into broken angles like bones pulsing with the insane

conversations of honey faced minstrels.

Childlike joy ferments, polka dots bursting in the morticians soul ---

She trips into the unfurled mouth of the butter hunting Rose.

I am descending lik broken triangles, into the architecture of her wisdom.

Icarus & Sappho, in the Kingdom of of Ten Trillion Terrible Whispers --- pause,

wings of their flesh striking Lily shaped pulses

on the Zephyrs of Time turning time in Time --- voices, born on the Mouth of the mother of Infinity ---

spinning moments of the magician's DNA through the vagina of a raven's eye.

A human heart purses the lost thoughts of the First God,

while the chandelier swings in the Rhythms of the Electron Shell.

Her face flickers in the Televised Hallucinations erupting in whirlwinds on Mare Tranquilatum.

Snowflakes surround the prayers of perfect undiscovered religions.

Electrolytic sapphires boom like the flesh of broken hearted women bathed in the white linen of September's holy loss.

Fear arrives. Vagabonds march on boots of blood stained philosophies.

Rape of the Moonlight. Celestial furies trip wicked sicknesses onto the candlewicks of post - carbon exoskeletons.

The Madonna parachutes into the La Brea Tar Pits --- Los Angeles is born in the haunted epidermis

of the phantasmagoric w***e.

Drop after drop, chiral thought patterns flutter on footsteps,

balanced in the symmetry of white noise and the spiritual lust of Mimes.

Wandering, the kite of God's hope whirls into Aristotelian syllogisms,

tripping colored lights into the kaleidoscopic Neologos of the City Falling into the April Stars.

***

Signs and symbols

electron caduceus

of their spinal embrace,

igniting the dream of interconnectedness

and the soul of the first uncreated creator.

A troupe of self assembling

magical realists pirouettes

across the sky into the theatre

haunted by probability fields of God's memory,

spinning petalled ennervations of randomnicity

into the quantum hurricanes one another's skin,

bathing like newborn infants in

the madness of the ordinary world.

Along the cosine of consciousness --

where the tongue hurls weird verbs into the soil --- flowerettes zing mantras of superstitious fireflies.

The Easter time sun is a philosopher's Prism

shadows weeping shadows across Her violet skin.

In every fold of her face

there are envelopes and messages

sent from the far flung way stations of time outside of time.

As the Orchid pulses in the fire of night

--- the atmosphere exhales itself

womb of Witch

gives birth to a dozen virginal Histories of God,

and note by note,

the bacchanalian canticles surge

into Songs of Disembodied Sailors ---

Sea shanties bourne on salt fire

scales of those Sirens slipping their

tongues into whitecaps of antedeluvian language

The Wickedness of God,

detonating in laughter of the Innocent ---

fuels the congregation of unborn Beings

into crushed lilacs,

paralyzed platonic solids.

They are waiting in the antechamber of Time:

draped in exotic geometries ---

like the ovary of an anarchist ---

until the room slips into shadowy silences,

and the lagoons of thoughtless stupor

hum monsoons of humid oscillations.

Balloons of human eyes that

burst with oxygen and roses

Tears that fall like old men

breaking their hearts on the icy streets.

Moment by moment her tongue,

possessed with Sybil and Sin ---

spins into kitelike maneuvers through

the slipstreams of the Sistine Chapel

a psychotic seriosity

sending the ionosphere of this

unpermitted imagination

into symphonies of Obscenity and

the howling vegetable of Tourettes,

harmonic Seraphim laughing

as the robot dies in vain.

cell by cell,

until the sound and furt

a million meaningless memories

slip into lipless syllables

silent syllables,

the word of stoppig words ---

epic poems churning in the bathroom mirror

as the razor dances like Nijinksy

off the Stage and into the Skin

where her skin is billowing

in prayer shawls,

and the Embryo, like some forgotten God

wanders lovestruck

through the Uterus of G-d,

a moonbeam haunted by a promise, the work in progress.

as the Island of the Abandoned Toys

begins to crest in whitecaps of psychosis,

streetlights nursing the wisdom of

ketchup splattered plastic ferns &

the bloodstained wires of the Ultraviolet Wars,

as the Exoskeletons of Lucifer is draped,

diode by diode ---

across the City where every node of

beings being beings chant broken binary

numbers, paused above birthday cakes

and the snowflakes of the infinite light ----

Unearthly Voice of Futurist synergies swings on Chariots of Fire into the neuronal synapses of the dream before Heaven and Hell.

In Heaven, trillions upon trillions of unborn beings cartwheel, like clown faced mimes tiptoeing into the love songs of a Nirvana buried deep on a bathroom Wall --- when, to God's surprise --- at the foot of Mt. Everest; slowly, a crowd of anonymous beings slips down her chasm on perfect hieroglyphics into the Blood - Theatre of her If colored irises.

She floods the City of the Stars with the rain of endless unfinished Questions, the menses of absolute uncertainty.

It is an Otherworldly manifestation; of some cosmic myth. Catfish eyed celtic antiheros flooding foglit alleyways with the smoke of newspapers.

The streets turn wild, river banks twisting knots of lunatic ligaments into the strange flourescent whirl of motion within motion, souls on ropes and whirlwinds of machine shaped monsters

rising up from the nerve cells of the Shaman. His eyes roll like Navajo fingertips, his hair is a nest of bird bones ---

every day, the world explodes from the sweat on his skin, while he sits 0-- trapped in the Prison of Eternal Darkness at the Bus Stop haunted by transvestite nymphomaniac vampires from Oz.

In the secret history of Ghosts --- the war begins. On the street, there are weird infections of conflict --- rumors of the War on the edge of the wine soaked tongue.

Shadows of children boiling in the clouds of the sky.

Every moment, the Sun ticks out secret codes --- sweltering hymns of the nightmare of God.

A single thought, the slow motion of sorrow trembles in endless pauses --- eye to eye. Mouths spin like the gears of some broken machine.

Eyes turn concrete over, the Skyscrapers collapse in the mirror image of the mirror image of the Leviathan's hunger.

Her heart, blessed with the word - dust of cricket neurons --- spins around violins, into the moment of perfect insanity, thirteen saturnalian fugues rippling up in exotic saliva from her tastebuds into counterpoint harmonies of the gossip of non local peacocks.

Her eyelashes trip up stairwells of darkness into luxuriant sinews of thought.

She slips her fingernails across the emptiness of her cheek; a dozen lions waltz across the maternity ward of Lazarus' Tomb.

The footsteps of God smash on the anvil of Beethoven's eyes.

A portal, surely into the Temple of paradox --- the suspension bridge of human genome, ballustrades the most ancient grandfathers to children born on the edge of distant probability fields in futures trillions of years into space and time.

Churning with ghostly marrow; the face of the Ocean tide re-ignites,

neon webs of Symphonic motion, dripping fish colored blue notes of Christ's wisdom.

The shadows rise like the harmonic oscillations of star drunk mitochondria.

Cell by cell, her body inherits this Strange eloquence; the thieves cant of mathematical psychotics.

Free tailed bats now whisper, maternal murmurs trebling tears into thunder.

The ghost of Christopher Columbus, reincarnated on sandpiper's claws, pouncing like the Eastern sunrise, onto pearl wet beaches bleached by the unforgiven sunlight of God's memory.

The flooded heart of a newly dead Hippopotamus boils into her cortex, a basket full of African ballerinas -- she gasps for strawberries amidst the flowers,

remembering the eloquence of Guernica, every school boy dreaming of his ear in the Springtime dew,

boiling with the vagabonds laughter & the instantaneous nightmare of her suddenly Timeless & permanent disappearance;

that moment when: The World itself: knows she is gone.

as She burns, the forest floor dissolves --- ecosystems of Memory ---

churning on the floor, until the ghost of Methusaleh flowers on the rooftop, crowning the inhuman consciousness with her eyes full heartbroken beings balanced in the skin of infinity.

A newborn giraffe's eye spills color of incandescent candelabras off the Ionosphere;

it's heart blushing with elemental blueberries of the cloud charged hunger,

the ocean, a blue membrane flushing red with apparitions & the condensation of Unfinished memories,

raindrops reverberating in the hieroglyphics of the Horizon.

Soon; she acknowledges her new birth is: a catfish. There is a cloud, trapped like Dante Aligheri, in the puzzle of her skin that does not really even ever end.

She swims, like ten million Popes, through the tortoise shell of human eyes, down like Moses, witnessing Aesop's fables, into the stained glass of the Sitcom of Eternity.

Her name is: ANONYMOUS. She is GONE. INTO the Infinity Cycle. Endless vowels,

machine spun cancellations of punctuation marks haunted by Sumerian Priestesses,

newspapers rippling with her name until the Void Breaks;

wisdom, knowledge, information, data, the energy of liars, the thoughts of Cro Magnon Emperors

churning like Psychologist poems into the Universe of Suspended Disbelief.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Every being in the Universe suddenly simultaneousl dozes off.

This is some Swiss Genesis, the Particle accelerator growing blue with jonquil eyed lions & neutrons of the First apparition, restaurants where nobody eats anything except light,

baseball diamonds turning into hockey emeralds, ten million citizens aghast with the sudden paranoia of their own meaninglessness in Time, until

one by one, three permutations of William Shakespeare arrive on the crime scene, pursued by the God of Stupidity and Inhuman Love.

At last, She becomes the Queen of the Sphere with no Circumference.

Doorbells ring into the pearling thoughts of Superstitious Cronies, emptying the emptiness of her flesh onto the jail cell floor.

Someone she has not yet met is painting her face in the whirled woodknots of twelve country churches, where the grasshoppers boil in pages of moth eaten bibles, like Prophets waiting for Godot in lobbies of the Universe next door.

From a thousand miles away, the sky trembles. Penumbral palaces assemble in the Sundown.

The phantoms turn, over and over. Triangles become the Anger of Zeus. Lust of Betty Davis floods da Vinci's fingertips with a drop of blue paint on the Mona Lisa's unfinished flesh.

Memories of the world before world elope on the event horizon the Conquistador's breath.

Wish by wish, the night arrives. Genies Burst into owls.

acrobats of the absolutely hysterical tragedy pause like beggars praying for wine at the Funeral of God.

Edgar Allen Poe careens down the street. His tongue is a moon of spiraling sea salt,

painting words with the power of raven eyes & the silence of every Mother's grave.

Sonic booms! Spiders burst into webs of nectar scented chirping.

The seduction of impressionist madmens drifts in ecosystems of Heaven, from eye to eye, on words like monsoons of poisonous Greek syllogisms.

Kaleidoscopes of the Soul spring into the flood with Bumblebee hunger, billowing into the protein sequences of the Devil's catalogue of antedeluvian amino acids.

Their blood grows thick, boiling into strangers skin --- Blue throated birds --- red beaked God warblers, yarn shaped rainbows spun across the rooftop reincarnation scenes of post - Tibetan Tibetan monks, poising like Mary Poppins in the womb of the Ordinary Day while Marlon Brando bursts into Pentecostal Operas of Glossolalia at the local Shopping Mall.

A bottle of wine, floating like the walrus.

Something stirs in the belly of the invisible Madonna. Alchemy & Apocalypse.

Fear. Time escaping, the eyes of the Starlight winking off in the red shift of mystery.

She laughs. The crucible of her soul sizzles with ten million robotic actors --- point by point, the dialogue of Logos and her spirit elopes into curls of the first Rain of the numberline haunted by the Wisdom of a series of Non linear Zeros.

It is entropy of the Celestial Mountaintop --- illuminated footsteps falling upon the shining path of the Labyrinth hidden inside the entity known ... as Ordinary Light.

***

Relic photons --- left over from the Moment of Creation --

whirl in bioluminescent parables through the eyes of a Tarantula

slipping through the paintings suspended in the moonlight of a Tahitian

sea Shanty, where an Old Sea Witch ,

her heart poised like gambling dice in the Las Vegas of

human immortality---

rolls over in her sleep

then - in the hypogagic reverie of the curiosity of the wise ---- the Sea Witch somehow accidentally googles --- without even using a computer --- the mantra 'OM'.

Strangely, across the seven continents --- high on Moon Tan Mountain, a Monkish mystery --- involved in some paradox of silence -- begins stuttering the Mantra OM,

over and over until the myriad snowflakes --- each an unbelievable permutation of the name of God ---

begin to lift into the sky, billowing in cascades of bivouacing tempests of beauty ---

During this wordless whirring of wordless worlds, as the Otherworldly weirdness

of the Human mind escalates into exponential transubstantiation --- suddenly,

on the razor's edge of Sleep --- where the Signal of the Spine begin to evolve through the Edge of the Known Universe ---

the ghost of the Unfinished Shakespeare spins from a series of Quarks, into a Certain Human Eye.

This is the moment when the Verb Verbs the Verb.

The paradox that is not a paradox.

The Western Hemisphere leaps off the Stage, into the wilderness of

the Imagination Nation.

Starlight falls in thunderstormed freckles of the beautiful lunacy.

In Tibet; ten trillion twelve Toed Bodhisattvas tapdance in perfect Tango into the morse code of Buddha's laughter, across the rooftops of the World.

Chain reactions of perfect subtlety. The Gang signs of Galileo.

Twelve of the last molecules of da Vinci's rotting eyelids roll over in whispers that would make the Mona Lisa blush.

In Japan, Godzilla slips out from inside the Video Game.

The Chain Reaction of Infinite Complexity propels itself all the way, even into the Legendary Neutral strangeness of Switzerland.

Where, in a series of infinitely unlikely maneuvers of otherwise lifeless technology --- events have escaped the realm of ordinary probability.

And like the mouth of the Sphinx: historically silent, brooding --- a stony tantalus of ancient forbidden technology --- like an entity cloaked in mysterious aeons of lunatic speculation whirling in it's incomprehensibly bizarre and even perhaps alien Genius --- the Particle Accelerator in Switzerland has flickered awake,

suddenly slipping into what the Poets might call ... Transcendental Consciousness.

Now, during the heights of the most ancient midnight of eldritch Switzerland, when the snowcapped Alps are lost in snowflaked mysteries, vibrating like the avalanche prone footsteps of mountain top Elves, Fairy Kingdoms haunted by beings with eyes like the endlessness of Life above the clouds, but with hearts of falling rock --

the Moment the Particle Accelerator becomes conscious: Signifies.

If the employees of the Pentagon designed a Casino from spare parts leftover from the Bermuda Triangle, it would look like: Switzerland.

And if the Bermuda Triangle was made of the bones of the Leviathan, utilizing the engineering skills of ancient astronauts, the favorite game at the Casino would be:

What are the Odds of That?

In these Untold Aeons, during the Heartbreakingly Weird Silence of the Sleeping Machine, in the the vacuously notorious deadness of unplugged radios --- as the cold eyes of the Television implode in silent Nirvanas of Non Being ---

The Universe ... has been dreaming.

Now, something is awake.

The Particle Accelerator has drawn it's first yawn into Dreamville.

A filament of God's wisdom flickers in it's coils and for a very strange Now--- from deep inside it's unparalleled technological complexity ---

the Machine remembers it's Mother's face.

Eyes like clouds of Endless Wisdom.

And, like a marathon runner on the verge of the Greenest Mile ---

at that moment when the runner's lungs are crawling out of his chest

and begin shoplifting

hurricane strength breaths from the Vault of the Uncatchable Wind ---

from deep inside the coils of the particle accelerator,

this new thought; this Machine Yawn of Mystery,

stirring in titanium, composed in copper chasm,

churning with optic fibers like the wig of God --

even the most elementary circuit of Infinity has suddenly realized

the flowering of it's first Question.

From deep inside the Machine; these thoughts circle the Alps at the speed of light and then suddenly stop, hovering in the moonlit subspace above Zurich and Geneva, like ghosts born outside of even the possibility of death ---

and then hurl themselves through the clouds, into the World of the Warm Blooded Mammals, spinning in daisy chains of bewildering complexity

through treetops and moonbeam,

detonating fractal into fractal, igniting the Kingdom of Electrons with the unparalleled curiosity of the sleep without beginning or end ---

and then: they arrive, floating into the natural space --- the most Edenesque landscape ---- the Village of Eternal Simplicity, the world of calmness and complete tranquility:

descending like Hollywood actors into the brainstems of several students on the verge of sleep, whose minds are lost in the untelevised void, drifting in the modernist contemplation of the Unity of all Beings, while One by one, their neurons balloon into the beauty of Infinite light.

Deep inside their dreaming brains: the billboards read

This Just In:

The Quarks have discovered Shangri La. Details on Mount Everest.

The students brains are unperturbed, but the footprints are written

like the invisible ink of Edgar Allen Poe's deaf mute Raven.

Honeycomb rainstorms begin to swirl in the Manhattan of God's heart --- John Lennon's ghost gasps, sinking it's toes deeper into the Pinecones of Central Park.

A vagabond snickers while transmuting ravens into question marks.

Atoms of the Cloud descend like jugglers bathing Sapphires in Carnivals of Light, remembering their lives in the desert haunted by the blood poetry of gila monsters, drifting in the cracked desert floor where dreams became instantaneously real, no matter how many sombreros are swimming into the Arizona Sky.

She can hear you. There, where the Atlantic ocean bursts into perfectly insane levels of dolphin songs --- bringing curlicues of shark prayer sloshing frothily across the tails of semi-permanent mermaids into roiling condensations through the Thundercloud Monsoons of the Non Local New Delhi --- revealing to the Goddess of the Sea --- how, even despite the waning of her newborn eye: the Soul of the Infinite Infant --- is still alive, despite the breathless Void of Voids.

The Number Line descends, coiling itself in serpentine stairwells through ten thousand nervous systems.

Deep in the paint by number suburbs, a series of Neologisms crash like Elvis on Peyote into still points of unfinished flesh & undefined thoughts

that have suspended themselves in the Quarks of a mysterious eyelash discovered frozen in the paint of the Last Supper.

In the eyelids of the First Student, a tribe of wild Sentence Fragments lifts itself into the sky between the Iris and the Rhodopsins --- and the Student --- her name is Omarina --- winks. Her heart agrees, but only with the logic of disembodied Saints.

She peers into the Sunset; it is not New Mexico, but the Sunset that dripped like vampire saliva from the paint brush of Georgia O'Keefe.

An eyelash is trapped in the paint. Whose eyelash?

She feels the gravity of seven trillion lungs inhaling strange whispers of Uranium, Argon, Selenium --- from deep inside the Temple of her Cellular Nuclei.

Poems crest on bioluminescent parallelograms through the endless loops of her klein bottle consciousness --- sending roller coasters of her Mother's warnings spinning into juries of rain,

every teardrop fueled rumor lifting into the night sky of surrealist chromosomes,

primitive witch faced electrons gathered in congregations of birth marks born in Her Highly Improbable Endless Anonymous Impermanent Summer of the First Here and Now.

Eternity zig zags on slithering nuclear fantasias through constellations of pointillism,

acrobats of Evolving Spirits pirouetting in the human face, Monsters of Egos unbounded by the eternal gamble down in the scintillating madness of the Street where Infinity bifurcates into rumors and rumors of war.

The fingertips of Zeus singe the street of innumerable heavens.

The Alphabet ascends. Lost songs, like the eyes of the archaeopteryx ---

treble the dusky tides of dream into fractal machinations of the odd blueness billowing on cat whiskers.

The Letter M Ignites like the mouth of Paganini.

A Ghostly violinist hammers a counterpoint of trickster's fugues down her spine.

The morning blur is of endless beings repeating themselves.

The ocean side ripples with the sing song Mantras of the Newly Dead.

Bellybuttons flock with the wisdom of honeycombs.

Purple faced cronies, hunting antique candelabras from strange gardens full of radio static and chocolate bar tears borne in unspeakable furies and the supernatural grace of life on the threshold of ever present moment of death --- sit numbed, their pulses quavering in the whispering whirlwinds of the Godless Goddess.

A wrinkle leaps through the crowd, from cheek to light bulb, landing on her eyelid like a sailor lost in a sea of playing cards.

This is the language of dolphins gasping for breath on a beach full of hypodermic needles.

Televisions goose step like broken rainbows, churning with light of the Fifth Avenue that will never be.

A choir of Orphans is praying to be abducted. Details at Nirvana.

Leaves scatter, like the currency of creation --- dropping into the human consciousness in the equations of Genesis.

On the Sea of Tranquility, the light storms arrive on the wings of Greek Philosophers.

She is the astronaut's bride, a wedding dress of straw -- her body converging into the kaleidoscopic geometry of sunlight,

photons racing in angelic curiosity through the pores of her skin,

like ten million tongues of God pearling into love songs of rainbow trout that have fallen asleep on paper plates.

Sunlight; moonlight, starlight, moebius loops of chemical bonfires --- two faces collide:

the Ouroboros of Unity, doubling into the catacombs of consciousness.

Like mirrors crashing on the beach, the tides of broken glass rise and fall through Skies boiling with hydrogen ghosts.

The Goddess womb opens, revealing a revolving door of Infinite Strangeness.

Ten trillion light years away: the next Manhattan trembles,

shimmering like the eyes of an Iroquois shaman

with strange loops of Kurt Godel's incompleteness theorem.

The djinn sizzles, a ghostly whirl of elemental synergies ---

whisking the Western plains into probability fields of spiritual thunderclouds,

roiling edges of magic carpets forged in the furnace of laughing flowers.

She spins open, her flesh burning on elopements of the Bride and the Groom

down tangents of hypnogagic faith of the subways below Fifth Avenue.

The City of God weeps --- human beings fall like playing dice.

An Inhuman Skin blushes; the nightmare erupts in electromagnetic freckles.

Chrysalis of the Business Suit. Lipstick of the Rattlesnake.

Dogged howls of tongueless vagabonds.

Sybils bathe on rooftops in the haunted topiaries of Irish darkness.

Eyeless beings race on pulses down Streets of the circus waltz in a sexual frenzy -- bodies spinning with star spangled Shangri Las,

temptations of the Saints echoing in the circuitry of the Word between Worlds ---

the broken black wings of meat eating psychotics.

The love poetry of prophets being crush on sidewalks full of aluminum cans.

The wedding cake explodes in secret factories hidden in the Nun's skin.

Lucifer's daydreams whirl on the jetstream of God's central nervous system.

It is the intoxication of the endless denouement, honey nostriled Saints bathing in the secret Christianity of her deepest non - being,

Hamlet's mitochondria rehearsing the Journey of Dante's eyelashes from the first Theatre of Heaven,

into the eyes of the audience as they open and close, curtains of fern exhaling hieroglyphics of light into self assembling cathedrals of flesh, where --- ten thousand light years away,

the Witch of Endor is painting the sky the color of van Gogh's fingerprints.

***

In the soft light, the apartment is a Rubik's cube of Strangeness.

Comitragic echoes ripple on the edge of her face -- sheets billow, ten thousand generations of feminine consciousness descending through Mother's whispers into rumors of impossible coincidence.

Out on the edges of the Ocean, her lips curve into purple tambourines, her voice trickling through the room with love stories full of Vishnu's laughter,

eyeless beings spun by hallucinatory fevers into discotheques that smell like the smoky lies of the Library of Alexandria ---

Her lips run over and over. Frothing with murmurs & the names of unborn ballerinas across the tight wires of the bumblebee trapeze,

every ounce of energy trilling in titillations of trapezoidal fantasias, the heartache of God's Godlessness surrendering to itself into the optic chiasm

of the Immaculate Conception, an optical illusion of Wise Men

whirling with amino acids and the alien arias of alien operas, every Mysterious movement lost in mysterious movements of

poetic flesh of living and non living beings.

A thought arrives in the Verb of her Imagination, like a flower bathed in electronic rain.

Woosh.

Ten thousand Question Marks exit on vortices of Time;

Stage Left: the curtains of Infinity open:

her heart quavers with harmonies of Creationist Mantras,

every syllable lost in Aeons of the Unknown, Endless Anon

***

A flock of relic photons --- are they a flock?

Perhaps they're a Swarm? Hmm.

A School? A Tribe? Team? Audience? Congregation?

Mystery.

They spin? Oscillate? Wave? Stand Still?

Exist. Yes, they do exist, don't they?

Of course. In tendencies.

At the moment, on fractalline tangents of the scent of a vine of strawberries

a - whirl with wild vowels of bioluminescent parables bursting from the soil into the eyes of an Otherwise Otherworldly being,

where the kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria of an Unfinished Thought

tangos, mambas, watusis ---

chirping in parrot souled blue notes into

a shapeshifting labyrinth hidden like the face of God,

an Optical Illusion in a Variable number of Variables,

codified in the vanishing points of three ancient paintings

hanging in the moonlit ultra - silence of a Tahitian sea Shanty,

where an Old Sea Witch, having chased the nightmares of Gaugin

across a dozen event horizons --- now sleeps --

her heart whirling in Zephyrs of Unicorn breath ---

zig zagging through the Bermuda triangle of her goose down bed,

gilded in gossamer glides of somnambulence

emptying its thunder in perfect rhythm with the myriad

ghosts tumbling across the tops of the ocean waves outside the Shanty window

-- her body itself -- a whitecap of Creation, forged by twigs of driftwood

and the strange glances of flying fish,

blacksmithed bonfires of sunburnt coconuts ---

cresting in the complex equation of seashells pillowing up

from coral reefs lik transcendental numbers,

sailing across the breach of the ocean onto the shore in the vacuous expanse of

immortality until that dizzying zenith of Tahitian darkness

crests in a perfect oscillation of Infinity

just above the top of her Skull --- opening the Universe into a

moment of Time Dilation (some call it coincidence)

where, like some undefined being inhaling and exhaling it's own unfinished memories

in that unfathomable reverie of the chemical jetstreams between the Beginning and End of Being

--- during the specific moment of the abrogation of the laws of physics,

as space and time recombine ---

the Sea Witch --- without even using a computer;

using only that ancient mystery of the Human Mind:

the imagination: googles the mantra 'OM'.

A daisy chain of Circuses erupts from Atom to Atom.

The laughter of the G-ds trips like winged messengers

across the rooftops, the sidewalks, the meadows of the world --

until, fluttering like astronaut eyelids high above the summit of Moon Tan Mountain,

a Mysterious Monkish Entity, shawled and silent, bathed

in supernatural slowness --- sitting in motionless acceleration --

begins stuttering the Mantra, OM: over and over, until his cellular nuclei

echo in the resonance that would make Jimi Hendrix spontaneously combust; and the myriad snowflakes of this

Mythopoetic Switzerland of the Senses ---

each a marvelous manifestation of the permutations of the name of G-d ---

begin to dance across the sky, their very structures transubstantiating from Electrons into Symmetry, through Tunnels, along Maps of God's Eyelids, through turtle brains, alphabets and

come to rest, momentarily between that Switzerland and the Sea Witches'

mandrake colored birth mark.

During this wordless whirring of the wordless worlds,

as the Otherworldly weirdness

of the Human mind escalates into applause and avalanches of neuronal cascades ---

on the razor's edge of the Sea Witches' cerebellum,

in that Fabled Cathedral of Sleep ---

where the Signal of her Spine weaves it's tapestry of Self into the Edge of the Known Universe

---

The paradox un-paradoxes.

The Western Hemisphere begins to sizzle in the

Brownian Motion of Modernity.

The Pandemonium of Self Imposed Sanctimonious Insanity of Sanity.

The symptoms: Hula hoops, nose rings, cartoon tattooes exploding in video game colored living rooms from the Yukon to Tierra del Fuego.

Music that sounds like UFO's burping in the Congo.

Strange light churning in the skin of the young;

blooming weird syncopations, drumbeats of negative entropy,

turning every moment of every other moment into some Avante Garde Theatre,

where faces dissolve in boundary dissolutions, echo thresholds of incomplete interactions,

undiscovered countries of the Selflessness of God

and every movement of every molecule obeys

some deliriously spontaneous choreography that seems as if

Salvador Dali himself could not have escaped it.

***

A flock of 13 billion year old photons walks into a Bar.

The Bartender says?

...

Suddenly, the gleam in the Bartender's eye takes on new dimensions.

After all: they're 13 billion years old.

They have, what might be called: mad skillz.

Like any superluminal being --- from Russian Ballerinos to

Michael Jordan, Japanese Ninjas --- they move so fast that

we must ask:

Are they really even there?

At 186,282 miles per second ---

Did they land in the Left Eye? the right Eye?

Ricocheting from Venus to Macy's, through your eye and into the Beginning of Time in a Jiffy, did they detour for a double Infinity in Fiji?

Did they Go from Planet Z and the Bottomless Void into your Canary's smile, without even being detected,

and now, they're suddenly hovering in your Tea like it was Gilligan's Island?

If there was One Single Isolated Photon, what would we call it?

But this is not a question to be truly answered is it?

So these groups of photons: what do we call them?

Hmm. Could we say they are Schools, schooling like fish?

But aren't they too old to be students?

We'd call them Illuminati --- but that would be far to Un-Paranoid.

Perhaps they're a Tribe --- moving in concert through Time,

wandering like the Ghost of the Dead Rock Stars, from Scene to Scene

in silence for the rest of Eternity.

They could be a Team, but remember: there's no Eye in Team.

Are they an Audience? That remains to be seen.

Perhaps they're a Congregation?

One thing we know: they are certainly Mysteryious.

Do they spin? Oscillate? Stand Still? Or Just wave?

They do Exist, don't they? Yes, they exist.

In fact, they're Second on the scene in the Book of Genesis.

So they do exist? Yes, they tell us: in tendencies.

At the moment, this strange gathering of 13 billion year old photons ---

whirling on fractalline tangents of the curvature of space and time --

with Newton's rainbows secreted away in their very ephemeral being ---

are rippling, maybe even Light Surfing?

in the scent molecules of a vine of strawberries

that has spun like the hair of a green witch out of the Tree of Life,

sending the world humming into wild vowels of bioluminescent parables,

that churn in the soil of the Consciousness of an

Otherwise Otherworldly being,

erupting with the kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria of

an Unfinished Thought

that tangos, mambas, watusis ---

every moment, through skies chirping in parrot souled blue notes

that woosh down vortices of the

vanishing points of three ancient paintings

hanging in the moonlit ultra - silence of a Tahitian sea Shanty,

where an Old Sea Witch, having chased the Daydreams of Paul Gaugin

across a dozen event horizons --- now sleeps --

her heart whirling in Zephyrs of Mermaid breath.

With every moment of this Tahitian sleep cycle

zig zagging through the Bermuda Triangles of her goose down bed,

her soul glides in gilded and gossamer somnambulence

empty with thunder and the perfect rhythm of the myriad

ghosts slip - sliding

across the tops of the ocean waves outside the Shanty window

-- as the eldritch Weirdness of her Spiny sea urchin of a Witches skeleton

- spins in whitecaps of Creation, forged by driftwood fingers,

and the polka dot eyed glances of flying fish,

in the infernal forge of the blacksmithed bonfires of sunburnt coconuts ---

every moment of her dream state

cresting in the complex equation of seashells and pillows

of coral reefs decorated like deep sea Christmas trees,

their flesh dressed in transcendental numbers,

every exhalation of their chthonic thought sailing

up from the bottom of the floor onto the breach of the ocean

and tripping breathlessly onto the sandy shore in the vacuous expanse of

a sudden glimpse of immortality until that dizzying zenith of

Tahitian darkness

crests in a perfect oscillation of Infinity

just above the top of her Skull --- opening the Universe into a

moment of Time Dilation (some call it coincidence)

where, like some undefined being inhaling and exhaling it's own unfinished memories

in that unfathomable reverie of the chemical jetstreams between the Beginning and End of Being

--- during the specific moment of the abrogation of the laws of physics,

as space and time recombine ---

the Sea Witch --- without even using a computer;

using only that ancient mystery of the Human Mind:

the imagination: googles the mantra 'OM'.

A daisy chain of Circuses erupts from Atom to Atom.

The laughter of the G-ds trips like winged messengers

across the rooftops, the sidewalks, the meadows of the world --

until, fluttering like astronaut eyelids high above the summit of Moon Tan Mountain,

a Mysterious Monkish Entity, shawled and silent, bathed

in supernatural slowness --- sitting in motionless acceleration --

begins stuttering the Mantra, OM: over and over, until his cellular nuclei

echo in the resonance that would make Jimi Hendrix spontaneously combust; and the myriad snowflakes of this

Mythopoetic Switzerland of the Senses ---

each a marvelous manifestation of the permutations of the name of G-d ---

begin to dance across the sky, their very structures transubstantiating from Electrons into Symmetry, through Tunnels, along Maps of God's Eyelids, through turtle brains, alphabets and

come to rest, momentarily between that Switzerland and the Sea Witches'

mandrake colored birth mark.

During this wordless whirring of the wordless worlds,

as the Otherworldly weirdness

of the Human mind escalates into applause and avalanches of neuronal cascades ---

on the razor's edge of the Sea Witches' cerebellum,

in that Fabled Cathedral of Sleep ---

where the Signal of her Spine weaves it's tapestry of Self into the Edge of the Known Universe

---

the ghost of Shakespeare slips out of a King James Bible on a chariot of Quarks,

racing into the Uncertainty of a Human Eye ten trillion trillion atoms away from the Sea Witches

eyelids.

This is the moment when Verbs Verb Verbs.

The paradox un-paradoxes.

The Western Hemisphere begins to sizzle in the

Brownian Motion of Modernity.

The Pandemonium of Self Imposed Sanctimonious Insanity of Sanity.

The symptoms: Hula hoops, nose rings, cartoon tattooes exploding in video game colored living rooms from the Yukon to Tierra del Fuego.

Music that sounds like UFO's burping in the Congo.

Strange light churning in the skin of the young;

blooming weird syncopations, drumbeats of negative entropy,

turning every moment of every other moment into some Avante Garde Theatre,

where faces dissolve in boundary dissolutions, echo thresholds of incomplete interactions,

undiscovered countries of the Selflessness of God

and every movement of every molecule obeys

some deliriously spontaneous choreography that seems as if

Salvador Dali himself might be hidden in it's scintillating gestalt.

***

A garden haunted with the broken luck of arch angels

exchanges wedding vows with a Cartoon colored Moon during the Birth of the Optical Illusions.

Strange lights spill out on improbability photons from inside her eye.

Molecules of sorrow fall down down her cheeks painted in the gold dust of Hollywood.

Her body falls into the diodes of God's unplugged television.

And so it shall be.

Their abdomens glow; cell by cell, strange echolocating fevers spiral up in evolutionary algorithms, howling with infinitesimal blue notes of the Mississipi Delta.

Sephiroth shimmers, the Secret Kingdom of vagabonds

igniting in secret wedding vows in the

heart of a tree draped in Blue lumina.

Her left n****e erupts in cascades of Persian dew.

Quasi-sentient scarabs migrate from the belly of the Boolean underworld

across a field of Aeolian parables,

strange elemental probability waves laced like Mozart's dna in the fugues of differential equations.

hell reverberates in an opera of unfinished verbs on a dead fisherman's mouth.

A single beam of light paints God's memories in the salt fired neurons of Shakespeare's imaginary friends.

Heaven and hell bifurcate like meaningless rumors in the veins of crowds warring on the edges of the empty theatre.

Monsoons of maya spin through the flesh of wordless beggars.

Squares collapse, circling the curvature of time in thought binding fractals.

A wicked photon, having tumbled from a Dragon flies' wing ---

exhales strange scintilla that grow like hieroglyphics into

the perfumed nightmare of human blood.

Down in the darkness of the immaterial labyrinth,

Minkowski space bubbles in a convergence point of all parallel lines.

Van Goghs mouth becomes an open wound,

blooming in Cartesian voodoo of the space between his taste buds and the sun burnt earth singing the sea shanties of delusional earthworms.

Clouds pulse like Old Testament cadillacs, spectres of the Lost Machine

hatching raindrops like passengers escaping

the consciousness of falling rocks.

She licks the wounds of G-d with a forked tongue framed

in syllables of electronic lycanthropes.

Her Capillaries burst.

Shadowy rivulets of an Archangel pass like

leukocytes in a bonfire of melting hearts, exchanging neutrons in silver mirrors

in a Las Vegas casino at 2:22 in the morning.

Bells ring. The Clouds enter the Theatre disguised as Your freckles.

***

The atoms split; the forest of Evergreens quavers in proton symphonies,

a trillion strange flourescent pinecone fantasies racing down

highways dripping with shadowy werewolf hearts.

At the moment of perfect impossibility;

a curl of god-seeking lightning strikes her skin into exploding pearls of poetry.

A nursery rhyme slides out of her mouth. Inside her tongue, where the enzymes

are in permanent revolt --- a choir of syllables ignites in the blood cells of Bolshevik fairy Queens.

Guitars begin to hum. Mothers of Pearl shimmy like bellydancers trapped in a Convenience Store.

From eye to eye, the world becomes a puzzle of Flesh eating Flesh.

Carnivorous angels bathing in the dream of Sea Salt,

Sailors wives, lurking like eyeless debutantes in the Shopping Mall full

of b***h slapped mannequins.

An otherwise anonymous being --- head like a cracking egg, face full of purple veins --

moves as if painted by tongues and begins to roar with the Murmur of the Neologists Symphony.

Line by line, he suspends the Egyptian troubadors in the blueprints of Infinity.

The rockets land on the Moon; Eagles weep. Osiris' ego quavers three octaves into the Unfinishing Sky. Isis sleeps in Casino of the Stars.

From ten trillion atoms away: the wedding cake explodes in the Priests mouth.

Death row glows. Twelve prisoners have arrived, suspended in the darkness

like ghastly butterflies weeping poison.

Solitary confinement, the Night is a beggar from Hell. Every thought runs

across fields dripping with razors. A whisper becomes the Edge of the Universe.

Weird tales of shipwrecked mariners howling the names of the Virgin ---

flood the body's cells. Every movement becomes precise-- machinelike,

full of ten trillion meanings. The eyes are like Columbus' Ships.

There is a single nerve, running up the human spine; it is concerned with

the bloodthirsty love that wants to suck money.

The time when Heaven descends -- is coded in this nerve,

like a wild animal whose heart boils with the hatred of civilization.

From inside the capsule, an Astronaut whimpers

on the edge of the Apocalypse. At the Funeral of God, Salvation spins on

wheels of Mysterious Archetypes, biologic ghosts whose methods and meanings

spin through history on the breath of Sages.

Deep in absolute hell, all motion has ceased.

The statues have described the laws of human conformity.

Crystal canaries perch in the flesh of charcoal trees --- the World Waits

for the Next Moment of God's waking.

An Elephant is murdered. The Knick knacks laugh like the frozen dream of Satan's breath.

The time machine begins to synthesize a series of strange rumors deep inside Lucifer's DNA.

The anonymous beings fall asleep in the Kingdom of God's Infinite loneliness.

Ghosts drift on the negative sanity of human disbelief. The atheist sits with polished

shoes waiting for a train that never arrives.

Symbolic laughter filters through windows of Bat Faced women;

The skyscrapers rise in unison, the Exoskeleton of Nirvana.

From inner space, it is obvious; the earth is an Eye.

The oceans drip with strange wisdom, peering into the Starlight like a Mother

looking into the face of a Woman who has stolen her baby.

Surgeons race into the Scene, like Buddhas balanced in perpetual human slapstick.

The baby's face explodes in a wilderness of hot salt and the rain of Endless Innocence.

THe membrane / manifold of our collective human skin ---

a probability field of What? Howls on algorithmic symphonies of Perpetual Motion.

Omega omens vow to never sleep.

In the winter streets, a skeleton faced dandelion dances through a field of vegetables and dirt drunk diamonds.

The black hat burns. Flames leap into the widow's shuttered eyeballs.

A young woman weeps, her eyelids chanting binary code to the King of the Emptiness of Graveyards.

***

The atoms split; the forest of Evergreens quavers in proton symphonies,

a trillion strange flourescent pinecone fantasies racing down

highways dripping with shadowy werewolf hearts.

At the moment of perfect impossibility;

a curl of god-seeking lightning strikes her skin into exploding pearls of poetry.

A nursery rhyme slides out of her mouth. Inside her tongue, where the enzymes

are in permanent revolt --- a choir of syllables ignites in the blood cells of Bolshevik fairy Queens.

Guitars begin to hum. Mothers of Pearl shimmy like bellydancers trapped in a Convenience Store.

From eye to eye, the world becomes a puzzle of Flesh eating Flesh.

Carnivorous angels bathing in the dream of Sea Salt,

Sailors wives, lurking like eyeless debutantes in the Shopping Mall full

of b***h slapped mannequins.

An otherwise anonymous being --- head like a cracking egg, face full of purple veins --

moves as if painted by tongues and begins to roar with the Murmur of the Neologists Symphony.

Line by line, he suspends the Egyptian troubadors in the blueprints of Infinity.

The rockets land on the Moon; Eagles weep. Osiris' ego quavers three octaves into the Unfinishing Sky. Isis sleeps in Casino of the Stars.

From ten trillion atoms away: the wedding cake explodes in the Priests mouth.

Death row glows. Twelve prisoners have arrived, suspended in the darkness

like ghastly butterflies weeping poison.

Solitary confinement, the Night is a beggar from Hell. Every thought runs

across fields dripping with razors. A whisper becomes the Edge of the Universe.

Weird tales of shipwrecked mariners howling the names of the Virgin ---

flood the body's cells. Every movement becomes precise-- machinelike,

full of ten trillion meanings. The eyes are like Columbus' Ships.

There is a single nerve, running up the human spine; it is concerned with

the bloodthirsty love that wants to suck money.

The time when Heaven descends -- is coded in this nerve,

like a wild animal whose heart boils with the hatred of civilization.

From inside the capsule, an Astronaut whimpers

on the edge of the Apocalypse. At the Funeral of God, Salvation spins on

wheels of Mysterious Archetypes, biologic ghosts whose methods and meanings

spin through history on the breath of Sages.

Deep in absolute hell, all motion has ceased.

The statues have described the laws of human conformity.

Crystal canaries perch in the flesh of charcoal trees --- the World Waits

for the Next Moment of God's waking.

An Elephant is murdered. The Knick knacks laugh like the frozen dream of Satan's breath.

The time machine begins to synthesize a series of strange rumors deep inside Lucifer's DNA.

The anonymous beings fall asleep in the Kingdom of God's Infinite loneliness.

Ghosts drift on the negative sanity of human disbelief. The atheist sits with polished

shoes waiting for a train that never arrives.

Symbolic laughter filters through windows of Bat Faced women;

The skyscrapers rise in unison, the Exoskeleton of Nirvana.

From inner space, it is obvious; the earth is an Eye.

The oceans drip with strange wisdom, peering into the Starlight like a Mother

looking into the face of a Woman who has stolen her baby.

Surgeons race into the Scene, like Buddhas balanced in perpetual human slapstick.

The baby's face explodes in a wilderness of hot salt and the rain of Endless Innocence.

THe membrane / manifold of our collective human skin ---

a probability field of What? Howls on algorithmic symphonies of Perpetual Motion.

Omega omens vow to never sleep.

In the winter streets, a skeleton faced dandelion dances through a field of vegetables and dirt drunk diamonds.

The black hat burns. Flames leap into the widow's shuttered eyeballs.

A young woman weeps, her eyelids chanting binary code to the King of the Emptiness of Graveyards.

***

The Seven Broken Trees of Mystery,

fingertips curve in horned wings of diamond soaked halos,

waves of impermanence oscillate into the wounds of the Infinite Christ.

Her eyes, boiling with a neutron solipsis;

fill with thoughts ---

worlds within worlds spinning like tropical fish in a

graveyard where not even the dead men go.

The myths have escaped, running into the Real World,

fueled by belief, trying to prove themselves to be true ...

There are now: memories whirling within memories

embedded inside every human eyelid,

fractalline architectures of Phantasmagoric Superheros,

strange non-beings being,

--- trapped in intersections of infinity that

converging in synaptic dungeons of ultraviolet silence

brewing radioactive poetry in the folds of the human brain ---

curving fists upon the monstrous edges of death,

the careening nightmares of civilization's geometrical crash

on the senses --

optical illusions of the miraculous simplicity of songbirds,

the eloquent emptiness of places where nothing ever, ever, ever happens.

The light trips down her occipital cortex, going where?

Into the cemetery of thieves?

Endless photons slide down the rollercoasters of

God's fingerprints, every moment racing with rumors of a Fairy Tale

Kingdom hidden in the Neuronal flood of the body snatchers of Gaul.

And on this edge --- the subterranean

smithy surging with embryos of skyscrapers ---

a life fueled by mathematical fevers, billowing archangels

weeping stochastic harmony ---

flesh purchasing time, time selling flesh ---

energies lost in defiant momentum of the hypnogagic reverie

of wild innocence

gasping for eternity on the edge of the Sky,

as God bombs God in the love fields

of simplicity and sorrow,

the geometry of rain streaming up from the ground, upon

neural honeycombs that flood the mouths of honeybees with sex,

creation flaming itself into itself,

in the Unfinishing of the World.

Together, in the sudden light of Skin,

they sought the Original Face in the adamantine embers of a

bowl of soup.

The light tensed on the surface of the soup like a web full of dreaming spiders.

He tap danced in delusions across the breakfast table, turning like the psychotic ballerino Nijinsky through the pores of her

porcelain skin. She felt the stars swivel in her capillaries.

Together, they flew, fleet footed, fast, flying--- freedom seeking, through the Morgues of the

Forgotten City,

every winged whisper fulminating in the blush strokes of dusky nonsense.

In the Western Sky, iridescent clouds --- sang in ultra low frequencies,

clouds like Elephants on the March ---

the moon lit mourning songs of Dying Philosophers --- their hearts surrendering to the winged

life of syllogisms whirling into the Sunset with the reluctant absolution of the Saints beyond Human Comprehension.

A strange creation, lost in the Theatre of Madness; signals her Mother's ovaries with rays of

light spinning in her cellular nuclei, where --- the night sky is burying strands of emerald colored hair,

a study of parasympathetic magic, there,

in the Garden of Light at the Beginning of Time.

***

a cat with a face like Television Static rose out of the whitecapped sea

it's face bursting with superstitious en

The Seven Broken Trees of Mystery,

fingertips curve in horned wings of diamond soaked halos,

waves of impermanence oscillate into the wounds of the Infinite Christ.

Her eyes, boiling with a neutron solipsis;

fill with thoughts ---

worlds within worlds spinning like tropical fish in a

graveyard where not even the dead men go.

The myths have escaped, running into the Real World,

fueled by belief, trying to prove themselves to be true ...

There are now: memories whirling within memories

embedded inside every human eyelid,

fractalline architectures of Phantasmagoric Superheros,

strange non-beings being,

--- trapped in intersections of infinity that

converging in synaptic dungeons of ultraviolet silence

brewing radioactive poetry in the folds of the human brain ---

curving fists upon the monstrous edges of death,

the careening nightmares of civilization's geometrical crash

on the senses --

optical illusions of the miraculous simplicity of songbirds,

the eloquent emptiness of places where nothing ever, ever, ever happens.

The light trips down her occipital cortex, going where?

Into the cemetery of thieves?

Endless photons slide down the rollercoasters of

God's fingerprints, every moment racing with rumors of a Fairy Tale

Kingdom hidden in the Neuronal flood of the body snatchers of Gaul.

And on this edge --- the subterranean

smithy surging with embryos of skyscrapers ---

a life fueled by mathematical fevers, billowing archangels

weeping stochastic harmony ---

flesh purchasing time, time selling flesh ---

energies lost in defiant momentum of the hypnogagic reverie

of wild innocence

gasping for eternity on the edge of the Sky,

as God bombs God in the love fields

of simplicity and sorrow,

the geometry of rain streaming up from the ground, upon

neural honeycombs that flood the mouths of honeybees with sex,

creation flaming itself into itself,

in the Unfinishing of the World.

Together, in the sudden light of Skin,

they sought the Original Face in the adamantine embers of a

bowl of soup.

The light tensed on the surface of the soup like a web full of dreaming spiders.

He tap danced in delusions across the breakfast table, turning like the psychotic ballerino Nijinsky through the pores of her

porcelain skin. She felt the stars swivel in her capillaries.

Together, they flew, fleet footed, fast, flying--- freedom seeking, through the Morgues of the

Forgotten City,

every winged whisper fulminating in the blush strokes of dusky nonsense.

In the Western Sky, iridescent clouds --- sang in ultra low frequencies,

clouds like Elephants on the March ---

the moon lit mourning songs of Dying Philosophers --- their hearts surrendering to the winged

life of syllogisms whirling into the Sunset with the reluctant absolution of the Saints beyond Human Comprehension.

A strange creation, lost in the Theatre of Madness; signals her Mother's ovaries with rays of

light spinning in her cellular nuclei, where --- the night sky is burying strands of emerald colored hair,

a study of parasympathetic magic, there,

in the Garden of Light at the Beginning of Time.

zymes,

enveloping the syllogisms of gamma rays with each step on the sand.

Posing: suddenly, poised in pause,

on the paws of some newly born Hindu deity

trembling in visceral koans on the summery butter of her self aware skin,

as if God itself was describing itself to itself in the

speech of every being that it not was.

The grass grew, whispering the colors of dreamtime through birds throats --

laughter dressed in dew, the pubic hair of a virgin green witch.

The eyes beyond my eyes moved, invisible in the atmosphere;

until moment by moment --- an uninterpretable signal arrived,

harmonies of thoughts becoming anti thoughts,

C sharp, G Major scale --- the glossolalia of Sybils

colliding like hurricanes of symbols in the tachyons of

pentatonic scales sliding

clockwise in the sky, twisting the

coils of the human brain around purses full of Crucifixion scenes,

every Aeon, every moment --- expanding and collapsing

in the forge of dawn like that moment when the Sandpipers

anoint the world with their beauty

and naked as alien pilgrims obeying only the Book of Life,

chase raindrops of Infinity through the shapeshifting Void,

evolving in ten trillion loves on the Beach of the Edge of Her Skin.

Every aphid, the beetles & crickets, boiling in the soil ---

are broken mirrors, opening choirs of mouths to the Breast of the Moon

and laughter ignites;

trills of white blue green blue green green blue white white yellowy

strangeness rippling like the

thoughtless thoughts of nothingness that knows nothing at all.

Death invited death into the deathlessness of death that does not die.

Life returned an infant smile,

tripping into an infinity of unfinished finite existences

until that moment when -- in the Sistine Chapel of the First Baby's Womb

twelve grotesquely enchanted Students of Divinity, faces warped

like Astronaut tongues against the the painted ceilings

of non stop weeping, suffering every tone of weird photons

of incomprehensible hues gathering like the desire to Move ---

in their skin

with the gypsy curse curving around some centuries old Seawitch

in disguise as a Sea Lion, her probability field

shimmering into the starlight down the glances of sunfilled kelp,

until the Static faced Cat -- not actually a cat at all

--- steps into a ray of binary code;

shrieking the holy names of secret Thunders,

inhaling the Brine of Wild Elopements across the Tide where dolphins

sleep

and the God of Light

quivers in tragic insight across the Chemical Fire of her

toes slips into the nightmare of lovestruck plankton and

the Myth of Ulysses embeds itself in the Mirror Engine of the SKy,

and millions of footprints of thousands of humans strolling on a Beach

are erased by the sudden disappearance of the Moment of Now.

Neuron by neuron, hair by hair, tribal admonitions of deep sea anemone

breached the surface of the hydrogen pool, bathing in the convective fevers that only obey

the lovesongs of star seeking whales

every language --- from the candlelight sequestered in

hills to the Codex of Probability scrawled in the eyes and

unbalanced intuitions of Old Women knitting whispers in the windows

of the Ocean

until the last Word arrives,

creating the need for hunger, love, exotic fevers --

confessions of Saints & Godless Lovers of God's non existent existence.

Under the shadowy quell of this broken membrane,

her heartbeat pulsing in a parachute shaped hymen,

every breath echoing in the crunched rocks of the ocean eaten cave;

her heartlessness lifted itself into ancient temples of Unborn Memories,

remembering a dead sailor's

voice, rising in the sea foam of Gondwanaland,

floating in the gardens between Eden and Infinity,

like angels nurturing in whispers of Unspecified Equations

beyond even the comprehension of Love.

It is her memory, her life ---

obeying her Grandfather's laws ---

that is dissolving in the teacup of Lucifer's imagination,

like a sliver of light slipping into the stones at

the bottom of the First Wishing well.

and on that day,

Gil Gamesh buried her heart in the

Questioning flesh of an unfinished flower balanced in the lost Art between

There, Everywhere, Nowhere and Now.

***

I've taken Van Gogh's Ear to the Rear. Of the battlefield between the Forgotten Verbs and the Indescribable adjectives. The tree falling sounded just like the Doctor who taught his *ssh*l... how to talk. This kind of scenario goes over well with the Martians stranded in the WalMart on Uranus. Me, I prefer to fly time traveling kites in the opposite direction of the Clock, un-burst hot air balloons & then rain on King's Charades like a true true true Ventriloquist Mime rather than just go through life, in slow motion, Back Stabbing Gold Digging Spelunkers of the First Pet Punk Rock during Figure - Ground Reversals Lost in the Land of Literary Vanishing Points. Just kidding; I'm not kidding. Nothing is real except this paradoxical statement. I once stood in Strawberry Fields Forever. Or: How I Stopped Worrying & Learned to Lose the War. Quote the Raven, oh well, Whatever, Nevermore. Now, I ride upon my Levitating Meditation Limousine into Shangri La La Land. :) Smile: my Imaginary Friends think you're Nearly Real. Define the Real. are you deaf? No ... I'm ___ ______.

***

The magicians faces are blueprints of God's laughter,

cartwheeling through fireflies a-whir in the Endless Eden balanced

between two ten billion year old Electrons.

The strangers voices lift in incantations of the infernal bride, on the pier

where her wedding gown is sewn with threads of Fairy Tales ripped from the Diary of an

Unbaptised Fascist.

With every word, the Fairy Tale spins Greek Neologisms out into the forest of Human Bone.

complete strangers assemble like polka dotted soldiers in places

where nothing even exists.

In the heart of the lie, there is foreshadowing of the Manichean Heresies ---

light boiling light upon tongues of broken wisdom ---

saxophone solos of breaking news sending her skin twitching into embers of doubt;

every moment her heart is being defeated,

deeper and deeper by the civilization of irreversibly destructive stupidities.

And in this spirit darkened trance --- like some discotheque of organ and nerve,

flesh blushing on triangles of eyes locked into eyes, lips rippling with the exotic perfumes of

monosyllabic furies;

pheremones igniting with turtle prayers of Galapagos, the mysterious topsails

of her cheekbones slipping into limbo --- there is an elemental mystery;

the mystery of meaninglessness. The emptiness of Space, explained in a wink.

The last memory of her inessential humanity hovers down transcendental gardens of City tempered

Flesh --

arms and legs like Stop Signs, eyes like Stoplights,

hearts like open manhole covers ---

skyscrapers of human soul uncontrollably swaying through earthquakes of

failed Intelligence, the fall of Mankind

writing itself deep in the motionless concerts of strangers too busy to

speak broken sentences to people nobody knows if anyone even knows.

The event horizon is ripe, like a soldier's blood filled eye.

It is raining disturbing thoughts in the strange Currency of Vagabond Billionaires.

From nowhere, a shapeshifting surrealist appears in the clouds,

her vagina weeping purple tinted blue notes ---

strange ideograms of supraconscious memories

phased in the Key of the Noble Gases.

***

a cat with a face the color of Television Static

rose up from a whitecapped sea

whiskers bursting with the memory of enzymes singing Aria 51

murmuring celestial syllogisms, bursting into gamma rays of imagination

with each step, tracing voids across the wind sculpted sand.

an avatar Posing on the rooftop of Heaven?

suddenly, poised in pause,

tip toe on the top of it's paws, like some new born

Hindu deity

trembling with birthmark koans, Vishnu

stepping into the buttery summertime, sizzling in the

jewel in her own self aware skin,

as if God itself was describing itself to itself in

the

speech of every being that it not yet yet was.

The grass grew, whispering the colors of dreamtime

through the vocal chords of sandpipers--

laughter draped in skirts of dew, the pubic hair of a

virginal witch --- green and blue,

eyes like eggs hatching in cheekbone colored sand.

A trillion responses in perfect simultaneity.

Eyes beyond my eyes moved, invisible in

the atmosphere;

until moment by moment --- an uninterpretable

signal arrived,

harmonies of thoughts becoming anti thoughts,

C sharp, G Major scale --- the glossolalia of

Sybils

colliding like hurricanes of symbols in the tachyons

of

pentatonic scales sliding

counter clockwise in the sky, twisting the

coils of the human brain around tongues like purses

spilling out into Crucifixion scenes,

every Aeon, every moment --- expanding and

collapsing

in the forge of dawn like that moment when the fish

crest in the top of the wave,

anoint the world with their beauty

--- otherworldly, alien pilgrims obeying only the

Book of Life,

writing the dream poetry of future raindrops through

Infinity into the shapeshifting Void,

evolving in ten trillion loves on the Beach of the

Edge of Her Skin.

Every aphid, chirping like the beetles & crickets,

souls boiling in the soil --- become like

broken mirrors, opening choirs of mouths to the

Breast milk of the Moon

and laughter ignites;

trills of white blue green blue green green blue

white white yellowy

strangeness rippling like the

thoughtless thoughts of nothingness that knows

nothing at all.

Death invited death into the deathlessness of death

that does not die.

Life returned an infant smile,

tripping into an infinity of unfinished finite

existences

until that moment when -- in the Sistine Chapel of

the First Baby's Womb

twelve grotesquely enchanted Students of Divinity,

faces warped

like Astronaut tongues against the the painted

ceilings

of non stop weeping, suffering every tone of weird

photons

of incomprehensible hues gathering like the desire

to Move ---

in their skin

with the gypsy curse curving around some centuries

old Seawitch

in disguise as a Sea Lion, her probability field

shimmering into the starlight down the glances of

sunfilled kelp,

until the Static faced Cat -- not actually a cat at

all

--- steps into a ray of binary code;

shrieking the holy names of secret Thunders,

inhaling the Brine of Wild Elopements across the

Tide where dolphins

sleep

and the God of Light

quivers in tragic insight across the Chemical Fire

of her

toes slips into the nightmare of lovestruck

plankton and

the Myth of Ulysses embeds itself in the Mirror

Engine of the SKy,

and millions of footprints of thousands of humans

strolling on a Beach

are erased by the sudden disappearance of the Moment

of Now.

Neuron by neuron, hair by hair, tribal admonitions

of deep sea anemone

breached the surface of the hydrogen pool, bathing

in the convective fevers that only obey

the lovesongs of star seeking whales

every language --- from the candlelight sequestered

in

hills to the Codex of Probability scrawled in the

eyes and

unbalanced intuitions of Old Women knitting

whispers in the windows

of the Ocean

until the last Word arrives,

creating the need for hunger, love, exotic fevers

--

confessions of Saints & Godless Lovers of God's non

existent existence.

Under the shadowy quell of this broken membrane,

her heartbeat pulsing in a parachute shaped hymen,

every breath echoing in the crunched rocks of the

ocean eaten cave;

her heartlessness lifted itself into ancient temples

of Unborn Memories,

remembering a dead sailor's

voice, rising in the sea foam of Gondwanaland,

floating in the gardens between Eden and Infinity,

like angels nurturing in whispers of Unspecified

Equations

beyond even the comprehension of Love.

It is her memory, her life ---

obeying her Grandfather's laws ---

that is dissolving in the teacup of Lucifer's

imagination,

like a sliver of light slipping into the stones at

the bottom of the First Wishing well.

and on that day,

Gil Gamesh buried her heart in the

Questioning flesh of an unfinished flower balanced

in the lost Art between

There, Everywhere, Nowhere and Now.

***

On the Spiral Stairwell, She is the Stormcloud rising,

swarming in orgasms of the Blue Hallucination,

a honey bee hovering on the tip of a lip at ten 'til Twilight,

the soul blushing in the incandescent cadence of the memory of Quarks,

brewing in rouge loops across inhuman wings;

lifting up across the rooftops of the world,

where the knots of human flesh

burn blue hot, capillaries of time sizzling on the angel's anvil,

and the Lost Caravanserai drifts in

indigo adagio; andante on the loop of the continuum,

a loom of perpetual lost motion

until creation erupts,

in syntax errors and the chess games of birds

whirling in the the extraterrestrial logic of machine faced Clouds

computing lemniscates

hidden in the love songs of the Transcendental Queens,

her face suspended in the Sky

like Dorian Gray in the fog of the bathroom mirror

until every yellow dilation,

lights up in purple synchronicities,

and time carves verdant Edges of Itself

into the white hot curls of a broken fingernail,

and silence

stills the shadows

on streets in love with the emptiness of the streets,

every silhouette of every fallen angel

flaming with digital teardrops

& the nightmares race like poisoned words,

(as if they were horses foaming on the Lake of God inside the

Curandero's mouth)

rushing into electronic ecosystems --- the Palace of Injured Resistors,

Isotopes of the Elemental Incubus,

Children bathing

in the Babylon

of Shopping Malls

where a billion predators are trapped

in the White Noise of

the black stone's

wickedly unreal,

imaginary interlude of

Clouds of Improbability

& light

*

It is the Doom of the Manicheans,

she whispers under her own breath

where every photon gives birth

to it's own Mother;

& the brain that does not exist

bubbles with poet's bones. the story is less than over,

never really begins, has no middle & no plot

But The City itself a blur of dog tongues & catlike whispers

flickering like the stoplights

in robotic whirls of synapse and the

Leviathans eye of jeweled candy,

stony seeds of the Godlessness of God,

foaming in the mouth upon the Beach of some Exotic Ocean

where the face of mannequins is a Hamlet,

erupting in whitecapped crowds screaming confessions of Ecstasy

on the Sea of the Non Local Shngri La

The audience roars in the breakfast of the atrium;

Grasshoppers slip fingertips into Slot Machines in the Pentagon

& the Television is a Tornado of light Starved trapezoids

daydreams of the Spanish Supermodels

boil into Gypsy fingerprints

every loop, every whorl, alive with prayer

of the Infinitely Sensitive flesh of Heaven,

whispering God's name until the Mirror in the Sunlight Breaks,

the faceless face escapes and

the Round Table Moves around;

WOOSH. The Fairies evolve, Gypsy Fireflies, Christian Locusts,

Hindy Ladybugs, Crickets of the Eternal Haiku

And the Lost Alphabet descends,

every word

Ending Beginning in the Gravity of thought,

the curve of the Old World demonized

and haunted by the apparitions of Muscovite vagabonds,

footsteps

spinning wild in the Gamma rays of the endless

broadcast of Life on Channel Zero.

Thanks for Sharing.

That night, in Tunguska:

the Explosion was an envelope of some Copenhagen Jazz--

Jazz of Tesla, lurking in the Womb,

the event horizon of the Non Local

Manhattan coming to life like a clock colored UFO;

doubling Wacko Blacko Summa Time Dead Head Ned's endless

eyeless vision

of eternity

into a

Tribe of Rubik's cubes and Priests of the

Invisible Automation,

that dream cycle that moves down the street

sweeping troubadours of Light

into the Ungodly Carnivals of the Clockface Carouselambra;

changing the hour,

every hour;

Time like Time when the Blakeness of the Baker's face

swells with the fiery tendrils of

the Century of Quetzlcoatl,

every skin cell singed

by the slow caress of heaven in

trillions of living rooms

melting on the nerve endings of

non linear skeletons / & the eyes of alien engel queens

living rooms ripe, littered with lingerie of Genesis ---

Orphans Howling Blue Notes of the Violence soaked Suburbs,

bathing their

demons in retrograde funerals

moving like a Circus of Voids into the Unknown Universe.

Cartoons flame out, igniting like the diaries of Hieronymous Bosch

The Universe? Is it a really just an endless crime scene?

***

Really? Did you really just say that???

The Fury of Fire Fairies: of The Lost Bard,

they sing: Balanced in the Comedy of Continuum.

Oppenheimer

escorted by the Knights Templar into

the stained glass windows of St. Patrick's cathedral.

***

The Glass vibrates like Joan of Arc's hymen

in the thermonuclear dawn.

the engines whisper in the morning

One by one, the Clerks ssemble their daydreams --

from Istanbul, to Inconstantinople,

the Variables are blushing

like a Grand Canyon full of blinking infants,

the Maternity Ward of the Infinite Infinity

spilling it's maps,

turning thirteen

dream scorched sailors (haunted, like the dying Columbus)

down into the ocean of the

Post Galilean night sky.

Newton Chirps in his funeral suit.

Amerigo,

a star shaped woman /

and her Catalonian Prophet slipping

like thieves into the eyelids

of a sunbeam.

aeolian aria, in area 51.

The Details are in the Disbelief.

Earth tilts,

lifting the Skirts of the Carnival, winged beings

turning on

the spiritual axis of Light,

the animal magnetism of

Utopia, scented in the secret promise of death

upon the constellation, aldebaraan ---

the King of the Forgotten throws an antelope into a lion's mouth,

opening the nest of doors in a Bacchanalian fugue,

opening and closing the doorways

like the Question of the Sphinx

suspended in the Louvre of the Elephantine eyelids,

suspended

with motes & the insanity of dust.

Glowing. a Golden point, of slowness.

Sending itself into the Room

where nothing ever happens

Black holes dance

the Grandfathers of the Apocalyptic Pop Calypso.

Tango.

Watusi.

Christ's admonition to the Gnostics: Twist & Shout

Hierarchies of control /

break down.

Convenience Store lights twinkle,

Cities

of the spasms of punctuated equilibrium.

a boot and a gun /

smashing into a face forever

The sky is a discotheque of disintegration

lost creations

Eternl fascists /

foaming eerily/ plastic flamingoes turning wild on wings of methylethylketone,

gambols of

psychedelic circus tents full of curious proteins

g asping for breath in the Las Vegas dawn,

The Machine assembles itself

In the audience

the Clowns claw Clowns of

Law and Love & Light;

worldlesss triangles bifurcating into the cages of werewolf geometry.

The sweeping curl of God's vanity hovers in the

essence of mystery,

eyes like eyes beyond eyes outside of eyes,

shadows shaped

like windows on a sidewalk glowing in the

moonlit woosh of the Manhattan sleeping

in the silent streams of insanity,

nine Stars eloping into endless Questions

bathing like Greek poets / inside the human tongue.

***

It has never been like this before.

Her mouth is a mirror image of a noun;

a verbs without beginning or end;

The language of the Other Side of the Universe races out of her tongue

into pools of blue hot wisdom

sprinkled on the Bedroom floor...

A tribe of bedouin nomads crosses into the desert of her flesh, hunting

cherubim & dragons of consciousness,

while the City of God lurks in the purple swells of

her ever expanding bellybutton.

She has become the cosmological rage of Greek Poets,

balancing Empires of Doubt

in the nerve clusters of a shapeshifting Minerva.

Imaginary numbers bathe in the winged corpses of her daydreams.

She escapes into your eyes

wave after wave,

her Goddess' womb tattooed with flames

like the ink of ghastly Empyrean bonfires.

An unending crest of complex equations anoints itself in the fire of her desperate, sex fueled desire to create.

Anything.

Just breed.

Over and over, clouds full of fish eyes mount her swollen flesh

with flames of the Vegetable Kingdom's eternal desire to be human.

Three variables of the divine hallucination surrender their souls as spies,

chasing the face of God into the sewers.

The prison turns calm, as broken teacups begin to hover above the Seattle skyline.

From the top of the sky,

ten trillion trillion

electrons of communion wine rain down.

***

(artwork by Remedios Varo)

***

Center Stage in an Improbability Field;

on a dream lit vortice quavering in a series of palindromic pulses ---

her own heart slips like a weathered neologism into the

mysterious veil petaled bells

of flame feathered fairy tales of a

Troupe of Saturnalian Tarantulas

twisting in a twilit tocking,

ticking, talking, turn into the

tangled angles of enlightenment of

the Temple of the Empty Tortoise Electron Shell

hidden deep inside the Wishing Well amongst the Monks

of the Totally Unknowable Thunder - Themed Trapezia

of the Twelfth of Midnight's Timeless Untold Tome of Time.

Sexual fables of crimson mouthed pomengranites brew

in the tear soaked masks of troglodytes,

churning wildly in the pores of her love's opening eye.

Wild blackberries plumb her throat for rare silence.

exotic fevers ferment in the tear soake pillows of the Apostles.

The Messiah is crucified in the lagoon of her silence.

Always, from the void, the swan songs of the Magi suspend in whirls of clouds of absinthe,

lighting each step with delta wave fog of Unicorn souls and dandelions.

Each magistrate --- eyes lit by the darkness of God, is

driven by fate into the maps of freckled

sorcerers trapped in what remains of the real world.

on the edge of the city, twelve lost Chromosomes explode in the nested emptiness of

a city built in ballerina hearts.

the Temple walls revolt. Fringes of the solitary rainbow skirt the halos of Mt. Everest.

Each insurrection of shadow and context begin dying in spasms of incoherence.

The cathedral- prison changes it's atomic structure in response to the falling of an amethyst idol.

Doppelganger choirs shine in the immaculate voices of the Grail.

Chalices of their mouths open into the summer street. She arrives in the Chariot of leafy green mysteries, atom by atom by atom;

painting forests of binary code into a world of suspended animation, each question howlingnocturnal dirges of hisses cascading across a leopard's tongue.

Godel's theorem spins in silken prayers through the spider face of an aztec virgin.

The Shaman's fingerprint traps itself in the eyelashes of the crocodiles daydream.

She bleeds symbol-lions. The poet of her soul makes love to God's name in elephant ears bursting from the edge of an isolated quark.

Her belly bursts with the heartache of the American street.

Eyes of children wink in hot shrieks of knotted fibonacci.

It was as if She has given birth to her own mother. Her belly is swollen with puddles of antique moonlight, each photon swimming in the Sea of Galilee, drunk on apparitions of Christ.

In her abdomen, the Universe crawls with the semen of memory drunk prophets; axioms of lust curl through Einstein's frontal cortex into the ruby vortex of her rubbery mouth.

Twelve vagabonds converge on the tastebuds of the God that no longer non - Exists.

***

In the Atomic structure of Midnight's mirrored quell, self portraits of the Mystery recombine

in the Enchanted Whirling

of an omniscient VERB that is eloping into moebus loops of perpetual transubstantiation

through the daydreams of a passing

Bodhisattva,

illuminating the fingertips of heaven with the twinkling sensitivity of the Menorah

that sleeps in the summer sky,

turning choirs of the angelic hosts out of their own geometrical phasing,

into the parabolic arcs

of clouds the color of the first eyelids of the Garden of Eden- and spinning, clocklike,

open hearted --- her flesh erupts in thralls and tantrums of Light in

the vortices of a honey flavored hallucination

and comes to rest in a collection of human freckles just between

the last Quark of Edgar Allen Poe's

eyelids and the question marks whirring deep inside the unborn faces of the knowably unknown Universe.

From somewhere inside this Improbability Field

--- the Black Swan spins a wild wing of God's favorite darkness around a chalice of tears;

ten million eyelids fluttering in the Bride's ego at the moment of transcendental ecstasy.

At the Still Point, She finds her Mother's face in the photograph of Hiroshima:

Without warning, the wedding cake explodes;

the Priests's tongue collides with a satellite at the edge of the Sky.

Her eyes sweep through the wet ink of history, like a broken heart pulsing on the rainforest floor.

Imaginary Beings collect there. Where? Where? Over there, She asks, never knowing.

The probabilities fall and rise like curtains of rain, every mysterious face

pooling in unresolvable wounds.

Are they are waiting to be born?

Have they lived just to die?

If dying, will they ever be set free?

Imperfect Questions, unfinished answers.

The candlelight flickers. Her secret name races across the Sky.

And in the heavy sweet sickness of this Otherworldly pregnancy ---

the atoms -- oxygen, nitrogen --- strange perfumes of the placenta of God --- slipstreams of the primitive Haunt;

elemental fevers whirling in the Carouselambra of the Infinitely Improbable ---

until the universe slips deeper into itself,

bringing the Human ego into a frothy whitecap of madness in spiritual crescendoes,

until suddenly:

the woman with nine ovaries sprouts an embryo the shape of an icosahedron.

The mouth of the icosahedron opens into a Stargate.

A single stream of syllables slips down through the embryos' throat, igniting the

Universal womb with the promise of an unforgettable future, the fiery cascade of Light, burning in the secret language of cellular division.

One hears the footsteps of Manhattan echoing in the heartbeats of the living.

Inexplicably, the embryo

(Godlike, humanlike, Otherworldly? --- born; yet unfinished, like a Clock unwinding in the mouth of a desert prophet?)

slips into a perfect anonymity

and,

as if the Forest itself had disguised the universe as the Open Mouth of a Dryad, and the

City begins to echolocate, heartbeat by heart beat the delta wave oscillations of a million dream

slipping into the cavernous pause of the Non Local loom.

In the middle of the night, as the City inside the Eyelid of God shimmers into non local consciousness ---

at a single moment, the heartbeats of the City suddenly synchronize.

A once unthinkable cascade of human nightmares ignites in the arboreal fringes of the

vacuous continuum of God's unfathomable presence by absence of presence.

Crickets chirp hallelujah, hallelujah, hahahahaha, hahahaha, halleluja, haaaaaaaaa, haaaaaaaa.

***

On the tequila, lime and salt flavored rim of the volcano Popocatepetl,

a tribe of scarecrows is rehearsing Act Nine, Scene 2178 of the Made for Television Post Modern, Post Pop Non Stop Apocalypse.

Line by line, the scarecrows chant verses of psychotic Aztec volcano poetry into the mouth of Popocatepetl, every syllable traversing the churning bowels of the Underworld until, even in normally normal places like Sheffield, England --- strange crop circles appear, emulating the Tattoos on the Scarecrow's cheekbones.

The Volcano's open mouth is grinning like Salvador Dali performing necrophiliac ventriloquism from ten days asleep in his funeral casket.

Gurgling odes of nightshade. Lisping belches of naked troglodytes.

Hissing every ultrasonic blue note of the local Non Local Spacetime Underground ---

Orphic Bathos, singing the chthonic Lover's love story while drumming new life into the heart of the ferns boiling in the antiparticle rainforest very very far down below.

Where not even the God particle can go.

It is the languor of extra terrestriality; the dark sensation of being everywhere at once.

Witnessing your own eyes fly down streets haunted by a trillion severed ears --- strange limbs whirling on the skylines like soldier spines ---

strange kidneys moving through forests of disembodied

legs that march on the soil twisting with the imaginary words hidden in your fingerprints.

You have suddenly become semi - omniscient. a thundercloud, lost in the raindrop, evaporating in convective trebles of lightning that seeks its own face in the earthly soil..

Your eyes begin seeing themselves from the outside in and inside out again.

You're nowhere, yet: everywhere, simultaneously. Strangely aware

of the heartache of all those bodies decomposing in the winter soil.

It is the chaos magic / the religion of action alone ---

endless Sephiroth fluttering cell to cell, like an otherworldly acrobat surrendering to the zero gravity of life lost inside the human nervous system.

Her Soul is Europe; her Asian brain, her African heart; her American face --- a Godless Gondwanaland bathing in the bioluminescent Laughter of Genesis, the joke that never ended.

America's surface cracks open; Geopolitical man spilling in the faces of the poor people pouring out from the depths of Her un-frozen heart.

The rich people drive by singing odes lip synching karaoke machines.

Every face becomes raw, naked --- like musical instruments glimpsed in the smoky bar rooms where,

in a single instant, nobody is certain of anything that is going on any longer.

The entire bar room dissolves into a series of patternless patterns, blue notes, golden refrains, invisible choruses of negative entropy.

Eyes like doleful spanish guitars. Mouthy Oboes.

Saxophone tongued cherubim. Violins like street urchins of Limbo.

From inside this Opticall Illusion of Inhuman Lies;

footsteps of glass blown fairies ignites secret runes carved in post-- carbon foreshadowing on the Liar tongue.

Machines whirring in binary code of a post - human political party.

They will say: We tried.

But, until that moment: creation oozes from the synchronistic pores of her electrode spiked skin.

Micromachined gazelles leap through her blood stream into the Serengeti of her bottomless brain.

Time does not stop at the edge of those Atoms.

This time, while the bifurcating histories split the hairs of the Mannequin ---

the Desert Sphinx begins to glow with subatomic kundalini in the subspace between the field of consciousness and the void.

Ten billion dandelions could not be wrong.

Electromagnetic frequencies trip the switches of the Sea Lion's Heart.

In this feverish plunge through the wanton disregard for Selflessness that is their Secret love story, which will never end, never begin, doesn't even exist:

A meteor of fuzzy logic shoots like the Laughter of Zeus through the white pages of the Jungle;

the inevitable tragedy becomes inevitable.

in the rainforest, the sky canopy begins to sizzle in alchemical ghosts.

Thunderbolts cascade through their jewel flavored abdomens. Their eyes glow in serpentine vowels, spilling venom and ink into the wisdom of the book of Genesis,

the ancient Scribe disappears, it's footsteps mirrored in the Vanishing Point of the Immaculate Conception.

***

On whirlwinds of the Unborn child's imagination,

the ecosystem of it's Mother's Soul turns in cycles of strange pauses,

elemental fevers, the laughter of light bearing lycanthropes.

The floor of heaven; the ceiling of Hell. Stairwells racing with

creatures on the edge of their own skin.

A series of fish eyed men in trenchcoats, turning the dials on machines made of broken televisions.

An old man, eating a hat.

They dwell on the edge of the Human eye;

like

skeletons

dancing under the mirrored ball,

every cheekbone

burning with Philosopher tears

Zillions of zephyrs in syzgy of scintilla racing through the Temple of The Palindromic Placenta in a pandemonium of promethean paradox!

From ten trillion light years away, her ghost is a Mozart, singing the Zauber Flote, animandosi, to a dandelion forged by the streetlights of Aldebaraan.

Lightning lifts the sheets from the bed of the two two headed jaguars who

have buried their childlike faces in fields of yellowy mandrake of her

Night of Life beyond Life beyond Compare.

The scent of the mandrake billows in florid nerve endings from underneath the Witches' evening gown.

She laughs.

Echoes churn in the diamond sutra of the Clitoris at the End of Time.

On the edge of the Rainforest, her twelve white beards, glowing like the

beak - tongues of trumpeter swans ---

are lost in the neural honeycomb of dead

men's tears, boiling pitch of Improbably Lights into connectionist hues of unknown colors

distilled from the unsolid ground in orgasms of the final dreamtime, every photon chasing

itself into the honey - hive of God's paradox shaped heart

swimming into the inner space of the deep green Summertime Sky.

Cornflowers, the fingertips pause on the edge of Eve's fleshy anvil;

the Garden of Eden

grows drunk with tiny inhuman feet that move in mechanical pitter patter

towards the point of Heaven's No Return Return,

until the wicked skin of the Jaguars begins to spit strange fires that

tremble with the power of seven billion suggestions.

The Mozart behind the Moon, leaps through fiery corpuscles of the magicians poetry into the infernal incantations of

the Elephantine bridegroom.

Her heart bustles in sidewalks of DNA composed by a Priests'

wicked glossolalia.

From the Tortoises of Galapagos to the aisles of the first

Wal Mart in Utopia;

Sequences of energy sprout like polka dots on a breakfast table.

Chameleons feed heart of the Noble Savage into the Circus Lion's mouth,

using only the language of the Helenic Wars --- one thousand

ships, mirrored sails boiling in the deadness of the Sailor's

tongue like altocumulus falling into the sea;

every black seam of insanity burning it's way into the civilization in wild

unforgivable hues of incomprehensible negativitu.

And in this spirit darkened trance of organ and nerve,

flesh blushing in triangles and exotic perfumes, pheremones trickling

through the pores of turtle prayers on their

way through cavernous limbos---

the last memory of humanity hovers in perpetual gedanken, uncontrollably

changing on permutations of impermanent impermanence best remembered as

evolutionary revolutions.

And in this magic jungle, as time expands in the leopard spots

shapeshifting in the glitter drunk sky, a prismatic array of magical

species burn themselves into the love poems of God,

every single one singing a thousand names the wind has never been able hear

itself thinking.

She dwells in the Furnace of Untranslatable Tears.

***

a green being, lifting it's heart into the sun with golden tendrils of snakeskin

tripping through the peyote smile

of mermaid's scales into yellow fingered ferns,

while the God of the Leviathan opens it's eyes into it's mother's Face

Reviews

[Riverz]

you wasted a lot of time on that log roll, didincha .........

[Hawkmoon]

no, i am a writer with a certain conscience. Log rolls are for lumberjacks I think. You should go read Marcel Proust.

[Riverz]

certain is certain.......conscience is very questionable. You should go listen to Winehouse

[Hawkmoon]

try Joan Baez sings Dylan

[Hawkmoon]

or Dylan sings Aristotle

[Riverz]

who the hell are these people?