the All Sleeping Eye Wakes up in _________!?!A Story by HawkmoonAnd as the non linear fractal of an All Seeing Eye translates the Harmonic symphonic lucidity of Ground One Zero One Zero One Zero into wisps of transcendental ONOMATOPOEIA ... the slow motion SHHHHHHHH, a WOOSHING eloquence of the Questioning Quell and an Unfathomable WOWOWOW POP POPOPOPOP OOOMMMMMM OM OOMMMMMM the Apparition of the indescribable Verb Observes the Curve Curve the Continuum upon the Event Horizon of Purely Theoretical Still Points hovering in the human heart as it breaks into 7 billion pieces at the precise moment the Universe bathes it's orphaned memories in the masquerade of Total Recall where Sleep Eating Shadows promenade in the dharma of non stop mystery through Stained glass Stations of the Cross Pollinating Tide where bloodlit Imaginary Beings spin Quarks around the Adamantine Void until the Ordinary Extraordinary World of the To be Continued Happy After Ever After "Once Upon a Time" Time Machine orbits a Mandala of Perpetual Birth in Echoes of the Primordial Imagination Solving for the Variable that Never Is, and Always Was, and Cannot Not Be Undefined and Divine until the Ovulating Novae evolve like Lost Love's Last Evolution Eden and the Ultraviolet Void of Mysteriously Mysterious Mysteries that only Happen as they Happen in the Sacred Amnesia of every Unfinished Beginning, when His and Her Fairy Tale Faced Earth becomes a Periodic Round Table that Swings curtains of Unfinished Light in hurricane mouthed Angelicals as they ask the Question-powered Apparition, a.k.a. the Non Local Non Linear Quasi - Sentient Entity the Question that cannot Be Asked until the Silence wanders out of the Muddy Page of the Last Unwritten Book while the Story of the Story-Telling Story Tells the Tale of the Daydream when Everything Happened at the Exact Same Time and exponential iterations of the Map that turned Yesterday into the Mirror Image of Tomorrow exhaled Negentropy to those gathered at the Church of the Immaculate Coincidence where a Faster than G-d G-d paused in a Severed Ear above the Levitating Tongue, while balancing the First Human Eye Watching itself Watching Itself in the Nightmare of Eldritch Paranoid Vertigo and the N dimension exoskeleton of an Infinitely Complex Experience foxtrots around Polka Dots that waltz toward the Beginning and End of Time (simultaneously) in the moment of (R)Evolutionary Weirdness, where an Isolated Photon juggles a nest of Stainless Steel Rainbows into the Scarlet Sonata of 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 disappears across the vanishing point of Everything that is Not What it Seems to Be somewhere in the Sea of Infinite Sleep a Million Molecule Mamba Mambos into the Minkowski Space Snowflake catching Umbrella of Unparalleled Parallels where the Unidentified You of You ululates the In Utero Sutra on Mandelbrot Mountain where the Dragon sings a Star Spangled Sermons of Anonymous Omens and Luminous Noumenon in the Cathedral of Polyhedral A Symmetric Synchronicity until Ophelia weeps Binary Code Boolean Thinking Bees into the honeycomb of Hamlet's heart and chimeras cartwheel in carousels of caravanserai and the daydream haunted nucleotides of the Magical Anagram Man's Inside Down and Upside Out Face thru a trillion permutations of the Indescribably Imaginary Adjective as it Nouns around the Pronoun of Instantaneous Anonymity until the Irreversible Universe collapses into an Electron Shell Eyed Godlessly Godlike Goddess and the Uncreated Creator trips into the approximately Infinite If just as Fred Astaire tangos with a two billion ton Thundercloud of Shark Tears near the drainage ditch disco and Last Shopping Mall before Armageddon during an episode of World War Wha??? that everything *somehow* becomes the Thing that is Nothing at all, the Void of a Raven's Black Ops Opera of Caw Caw Caw and Jabberwocky Snick Snacking zig zagging tick tocks into the Zero Gravity of God's Baby Steps and the Museum of Nameless Nothings ignites in the Paradox Paradox of the Time of Ten Times Two +/- X / Y (SQR -1) until the Guru of the Cuckoo Clock clucks Ten Taoist Here and Now Owls into the IsAmAreWillBeBeingWasWere O How O Who O When' O Which O Where O Why O' Clock and an Infinitely Purple Electron Yawns Aria 52 through Pavarotti's Lamborghini powered Larynx and the Lion of the mental serengeti appears in Marcel Marceaux's bathroom mirror exhaling the Ghost of King Shakespeare that ENTERS, pursued by a Gravedigger through the La Rue de L'Ancienne Comedie cleverly costumed as a Bullet Proof and Amphibious Extra Terrestrial Sock Puppet quoting ten thousand Fuzzy Logic Soliloquys and Socrates Neverending Limerick as Thespian Zephyrs and other Isolated Variables pause downstage Center of Uncertainty and the Ouija faced Waitress of Cafe Procope bursts into an Encyclopedic Silence when Primadonna Lady Gala Dolly's Lama sails across the Sky in Saint Psychotic and Pirouettes into the perpetual denouement and Pandemonium of the Convenience Store where a Triple Agent Superduperubermodel Game Show Soap Opera Crime Scene / Infomercial Parasite demonstrates the All Tasting Mouth swallowing a Supercomputing Acorn a godzillion polyunsaturated hydrocarbons at a time until the esoterically juxtaposed (at the place on the map where the Robot Goddess placed the last Human Fingerprint on the Electromagnetic Nothingness between The Them They Say They Aren't and the and by the light of the Aluminum Foil Grave and the fury of the glow in the dark Womb the Nun with no Verb discovers Herself winking the Angels to sleep in a Mirror that is falling to the floor as it reflects the Spectroscopic Recipe of a Chlorophyll Cupcake in whose ALtered State Altar hides the unanswered Calculus of Celestial Eccentricities that tip toes on Tarantula toeshoes inside a Suburban Turban Ten Rupee Toupee until the Picasso Toothed Piano bursts into arpeggios of megalomaniacal narcissism causing fugues of Rubyait Shaped Spaceships to quilt quixotic Nyx in the lily laughing as Michaelangelo's Paintbrush swings the Wings of an post Imaginary Canary across the Kingdom of Sleep where the Ten Ton Teardrop is beeping blue beetles inside the Unseen Eye of Godot, awaiting for Columbus to arrive in a Trilobyte Tuxedo, to pose in Pointilistic Silhouette for the Pre Cambrian Pieta, Christopher Columbus steps into the Ganges River, announces and the crucifixion of Quetzlcoatl on Chrysalis day at the Daisy Chain Membrane at the Beginning of Time when pantheon by pantheon a trillion chthonic avatars haunt the Mystical Apostolic Postulates in the Cloud chamber of an antediluvian prophet's Ninety Nine Octave Platonic Optical Confusion where, at the Summit of Mandelbrot Mountain the Mirror Image of Helen of Troy calls the phalanx of orphaned Argonauts across the Sitcom of Apocalyptic Calypso where the Vineyard Wind Wine Fueled UFO is whispering Vintage Scintilla of a the blue note parable and the Love Songsof the Angelical Poor across vaulted exaltation and ultraviolet vapors of a Stygian Extraterrestrial Snore as the Intergalactic Pterodactyls chant tantric canticles of an Orchid winged Blackbird's Brimstone beaked caw into a Chalice on Alice in Wonderland's Pawn Shop Tarot Card Floor into dizzying astonishment as the Chessboard erupts into a Ten Saga Raga played by the Pagan Vagabond Googolplex in a Self Assembling Swan Song and Non Cartesian Corollary as the G-d Quark quavers into the Dreamlit of Fable and Folklore through a Revolving door, one trillion Anonymous Stranger -winks deep inside the golgi whirligigs of the Queen of Cortex Vortex Voodoo Juju where a paint by number Skeleton bathes it's eyeball blonde blueberries in the Binary Code of Heaven until a Self Assembling Rainforest balances the marrow of Unfinished Tomorrow in the field of Pharoah Sparrow Sapphires at the retrograde elopement of the Vowel howling holy posthumous polyphony in the Center of the Lapis Lazuli Lemniscate where a flock of Enchanted Channel Changing Changelings are calculating permutations of Mozart's Disembodied chromosomal Sonatas to the the Mockingbird wing flickering in Nostradamus Inside Out Iris as the breathe of the Dream Breathing Dragon sweeps the bride and groom to a Swooning Typhoon on the Solar Honeymoon, in the Kingdom of the Permanently Unknown as all flower faced Marvels and Seraphim Miracles of the Mystery Monster Cycle the Alpha Wave Algorithm across Catastrope Avenue where the Ghosts of Midtown Manhattan are singing ten thousand Showtunes simultaneously at the place in Central Park where the Aardvarks of Aldebaraan haved arrived from Atlantis and the Puzzle of Post Modern Paranoia erupts in a palindrome of Primordial Complexity hidden somewhere in Times Square and the Allegory of the Aristotelian Algorithms Sleepwalks in Serendipity's Omniscient Surrender slithers Legend by Legend like the Minotaur Mime chasing a Whisper through St. Patrick's Cathedral until Salvador Dali's Feet leap into the Sleep that Sleeps only when in the Apples weep Pearls they can't Keep as the Pentagon where Sappho sings Starfire of the Non Local Poem, whose Books cascade in the Silent Tides of elementary cognition thru the Central Nervous Systems of Godot, Rimbaud, Cocteau, Bardot, Van Gogh, and the Cha Cha Cha chakra of the Martyr named Marilyn Monroe as She tip toed out her Skin and disappeared into the Fibonacci Sequence of ten thousand Paparazzis spinning across the sky by the light of 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, as Semolina Pilchard falls Up the Eiffel Tower and into the Nightmare of Lady Godiva whose freckles crest in Eden's scented salted Spires upon the Dolphin's sunburnt tongue, at the place where ten thousand mud haired zombies Howl Hallelujah Shangri Lalalala of across the in Nested Regress of the Sybils 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 grows in the Forest of the Feast that Leaves, a post neurotic quasi logic rumination of Belief, the Moon that climbs Druids Spine and wakes inside the Sunlit Night of Endless Meaning within Meaning, her smile laced with blue Parisian candlelight, Stonehenge spirals in the Corner of Her Eyes, a thousand funeral pyres of Immortal Beings pillowing weeping willow tree trembles into the Crested Lace of Face traced in the parabolic arc where the Oakened Elf wakes upon the Eternal Nocturne, shining incandescent abracadabra of the Interstellar Valleys of the Chateau of Breath, an Infinitely Anonymous Nothingness is singing differential equations of Eden on the Third Day, the tarot of tattooed Wiccan Chimera purse their mouths into Oracles 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 Blind Diamond 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 sings the Phoenix winged Aria of Area 51, the Ruby haunte Rubicon 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 Edgar Allen Poe from the inkwell of Mare Tranquilatum where Pi is Even Odd, looping the tetragammatron from Shangri La into Disneyland, and the Electrolytic Toreador sings interstellar esoterica into a starry night, breathless exhalations of the Adamantine exaltations of the Clitoris of Ensorceled Emerald Satori **** The newspaper is Lucifer's Armani Tuxedo.
*** 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 the Grandmothers grow wings and die in Operas of Pyromania and Stardust as the Empress of Flame spontaneousy combusts in daemonic chiarascuro, and Socrates heart shimmers like a Ouija board in an Amish Pentagon, 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 window 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 Captain Kangaroo of Insanity: Arthur Rimbaud, whose thirteen fingered fists wash Lucifer's heart with a bowl of antediluvian phantasmagoria and chiracos of nightshade and mandrake, twilight twisting its death wishes across the ghastly hunger of the golden dawn and mandala of sephiroth a jungle of juxtaposed luxuriance feral laughter, dog faced women suckling Nosferatus in the century of unfinished thought as hieronymous Bosch boils the NIght in pastures of Singing Wheat, pagan birds LOOPED in doldrums and the Cities of tantric lucidity, the lips of hipster faced chameleons, chirping cryptic whispers the peacock mystic of of Lilith's exponential tryptich, a twelve tongued plunge into the cauldron of the Wounded Mirage, NYX whose flesh is an emerald lightbeam tripping starlit rastafarians across a sparkling Ark in the Galactic laboratory into chromatic fevers of a hydrogen heart, the titanium cranium bristling with the photovoltaic hemidemisemiquavers, 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 Shadow of Leviathan opens it's eyes into it's mother's Face © 2015 Hawkmoon |
Stats
706 Views
1 Review Added on January 14, 2015 Last Updated on January 14, 2015 Author
|
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Subscribe
Flag Writing
