ABracadabra Caravanserai INKBLOT

 

Perhaps it was an inkblot shimmering  in the dark

or  transcendental polka dot, in Guernica by the Park

or a  perpetual motion mandelbrot, 

balanced in the iris of a holographic meadowlark, 

levitating on that horizon, 

circling like some  intergalactic shark 

and  really

as we became enchanted by the show 

all the things we think we think we know 

to paraphrase Day carte'

havee entered into axiomatic vertigo 

of Hamlet Einstein Shakesepeare and maybe even Galileleoeoeloeoo

I DONT THINK WE KNOW WHAT WE KNOW  

about the  BUZZING OF THIS WING

we the Extraordinary Stargazers 

by the light of Ockham's razors

do decreee 

This THING,  was not what it seemed, and 

by the Jeweled LUnacy of  light 

to sleep perchance to dream a vision of Second Sight, 

Shining with uncertainty

 THIS THING:  IT MUST BE:    AN actual  UFO! 

-

THUS the mystical momentum, commenced the fascination supreme 

by the radiation afterglow of a hollywood MOvie Screen 

in the randomnicity I sing 

it cast the yarrow stalks and I ching 

: "as above, so below",

and like Edgar Allen Poe, 

it was a "dream inside a dream

 that night as MIchealangelo chiseled the 

Milky Way  into a creme de la creme of the crop circle 

and MOna Lisa giggled when SHe heard  Van Gogh Scream

and Lao Tzu's flag became a Yin - Yang Yo Yo and  

 Pi R2 erupted in applause 

causing even

Marconi with his telepathic wireless  to  go from Gaslight to a

technicolor scream :

"What hath God- wrought?" --- in the day of Black 13 

and the great monster Taoist Frankenstein laughed

 and said 

"Godzzilla wants to know what you think you humans mean

TO A MACHINE?"

(ANd NOW) 

TO THE MOTHERSHIP 

 MIS EN SCENE 

MID SOLILOQUY

HUGO 

VAN  GOGH

(AND PETER PAULEY RUBENS TOO) 

GO GO GO TO BE BE BE 

OR:


"Hieronymous Bosch Takes Lady Godiva  to the Zoo"

or 

WHATS IN A WORD, SHAKESPEARE? 

Exit Stage Center, pursued by a OUIJA BOARD.

ABracadabra in the LOgos!

 Was this thing in the Sky, a Whirligig of  Fear?

was it a flying saucer underneath 

the STorm Gods

Beard?

OUt of Space, 

was it a  POINT OR   A WAVE

WAGGING ITS TALE LIKE SCHROEDINGERS BAT?

INKBLOT I SCREAMED,

JABBERWOCK THAT!

FELIX THE WHAT?

MC ESCHER AND HOW???

In a trick  top Hat 

black and white,  DRACULAS bones afloat in the  SKy???

Skeletal, Iron Triangle, broomstick, on Nigh 

It was as weird as illuminated Van Goghs Ear---

it shined in a kaleidoscopic cartwheel so clear --- 

we could not tell if it was far or near---- 

was it 10,000 miles away? 

or was it floating in my beer? 

Far or Near, it goes to show 

we who gather in the dark do not know, doi not know 

Was it lost in the stars, as meaningless as static?

 or was it omniscient, a robot gone rogue, with drastic spastic tactics too bold? 

was it just a child's Toy escaped from the  Attic? 

IT looked left, it looked down,

it looked young, it looked old; 

it rotated in slow mo a  triskadekabazillion  times around 

Yes! It knew all! NO!

It Knew Not!

IT tied a duck billed platypus into a Gordian Knot!

Was this thing, 

THE All Seeing Eye, 

flowing through the fields so acrobatic ---

a flock of  stars ---- gone Zebra Ecstatic 

 the constellactions whirling erratic  

circling like dragonflies, in  zephyrs disguised as a jeweled brocade  

It even flickered it's filaments, 

whirlwinds of Zeus  in a serpentine - zephyr charade, 

hovered and it poured a glass of lemonade 

turned a crocodile into a man named Dwight 

turned water to wine and day to night and back again

spun like a top, turned a month into a Week ---- 

and though we sought to know and seemed to seek 

the meaning to this situation unique

no matter how many questions checked our cheeks 

 we still do not know what we saw that night 

that strangest night, 

IT WAS AS IF 

AS IF 

a Carouselambra in the STars 

had ignited in a

Phantasmagorical spark 

the night the fractal dactyl danced and 

chaos and cosmos  went swirling , whirling in a

caravanserai arc 

(and we ....... who ......gather............ in the dark). 

watched as the the stars that flew - a trillion ways 

synchronized slowly, as if singing night to day 

the proscenium of NIght, appeared the constellation MUses:

starry starry,  a thousand dancers danced inside that   Milky way 

like Van Goghs ear, in a field of twinkling stars --- the THing itself that 

Strange Iota IOn 

darted to and fro in zephyrs of great aeon

-- it kept us  questioning and guessing:

 

whowhatwherewhen whywhatandhow

did the moon just jump over the cow?

which side of darkness were we even on?

it was neither here nor there ---

 it spiraled mad, then flew asunder 

acrobatic, devil may care ;

it floated left it floated right, became a windowpane

became a light

became a wonder 

became a fairy , became a sprite

it sang a chorus, it spoke fables 

sang songs of endless hieroglyphic light,

then  revolved in to an UNasked Question

and turned darkest cartwheels of  folk lore

and though we never actually saw it happening,

by malthusian gestation, 

it kept happening even more and more 

*

There, it flew --- an Orb of Nude LOgos. 

An eyelid flapping like a flag at dawn

a century of knights, a deja vu voodooo

a snoring elephant eared dinosaur! !!!!

it suddenly was all this and Even More!!

was it an  eyelid? or a Question mark? On the horizon, 

out there, in the seraphinium shore 

It folded into stormy weather as if it was a Monster Opening lock.

it circled in silence for what seemed aeons, 

it rode through the City in a Forest Frock!!!

it calculated Pi with Captain Spock!!!

east and west, the untimed clock 

it chanted Voodoo Guru of the  Jabberwock

and even thunderbolted

the lightning from the empty Rock. 

The ground it seemed to pillow in a field of nursery rhymes;

the curtains on the theatre became filled with clown faced mimes

but one voice did fill with echo 

this antechamber sublime 

with one question made illustrious in the cooing of the chimes

"Is this a poem where everything rhymes?"

And no, the answer is also unknown 

and eludes our comprehension mysteriously 

this is the night a wild eyed ghost, named 

DOREMIFASOLATIDO

appeared in a spaceship, 

SLIGHTLY OFF-KEY

 on a page, 

on a Stage Centre, in the LOUVRE!

as da vinci 

hovered in a butterfly fractal pandemoniium groove, 

and heaven and earth began to slowly move

Mona LIsa leapt from the canvas

and the WIzard of Oz

wokeup 

in Kansas.

SCENE 2:

Act One Scene Wow:

loube

Enter Stage Inside-Out,  the figure ground reversal ---- 

a Spanish teapot, a figure eight: Salvador Dali in dress rehearsal

the Van Gogh's ears  were fastly  spinning, 

the orchestra was taut: 

MOna Lisa sat their grinning for five centuries, no doubt

the audience  had not begun to Pout 

for upon the Stage most distant, 

neither here nor there nor far nor Wide 

on the Horizon an Event Horizon, 

was surfacing 

in the Eyes of the Phantom Bride. 

At the place of the space time continuum.

in the LOuvre, in the Globe, in the Chapel SIstine.

it was Love, at first Nucleotide

*

Howling madmen from the centuries came from far and near 

Vampire vixens, vicious valentines, all serpentine and lust

cresting in fractal of doremifasolatido dust

 the Infinite Infinity Was Here !

One by One, the Beings arrived, IMaginary and Semi Real

vis a vis the SQR -1 andEzekiels' 

  Non Local Non Linear wheeel

the dayglow Sphinx without a name 

 blushed a trillion Rainbows around, 

until nothing was nothing and nothing was  the Same and 

 turned  Pi into E=MC2 by the light of the Faster than Light 

Silent Sound

of Phosphorous, the WHite Tongue of Hell, 

Illuminated Philosopher's Forgotten First Name Name!

SYNCHRONICITY!!!!

  during a scene from Picasso's Palindromic paintbrush ---

twelve elven angels leapt ----

 as Einstein 's 

Eyebrows leapt out of the Garden 

double dutch  mid - fibonnaci

with photons in the Topsail, 

made Madame Blavatsky the 

Theorhetical Theosophist Blush

in alizarin crimson, like Moliere, but not too much 

the chlorophyll  of blue beards Eyes

appeared a crazed Da Vinci, 

in disgsuised as none other than 

MIckey MOuse, 

the Superhero who 

brought down the HJouse

 in a Synchronicity of the Immaculate Surprise

Walt DIsney giving Grouch Marx 

a running and 

da Vini's laughter like a Supersonic Booom 

brought down the house in a BIg Bang Boooooombooom

with a Volume of Celestial 

NoneSuch!

written in it's

very mysterious 

 black hole open eyes

It was there , those  Blue Eyes Squared, 

somehwhere near the Mandelbrot Museum 

Fast and Slow, Michelangelo painted out the  Sad Pierrot

that you  did know 

began to expand from the mouth of Picasso

nested in a sequence of random numbers 

an 

ILLUMINATED BEING!!! 

 as the  Caravanserai of  Sleep Walking Polka Dots Breathes the Dream Breathing 

Equation  into a Zephyr of  approximately Instantaneous Omniscient  

Adjectives howling Adagio,

  the Night Sky a waltz of demigods through the quasicrystal lattice ad astra andante Imagio 

  ten trillion trillion inorganic Egos illuminated with  subatomic vertigo

 and Carouselambra of  a - Symmetrical synchronicity

   that balances The Moment of the Aeon before All Time Began at the 

 furthermost  Epoch of the absolute Unstoppable Endpoint  of Space-Time 

 where the subliminal messages  of  Nostradamus' pet Ouija Board 

are paraphrasing the Subatomic Soliloquys of Light Bending Lilies 

 into  the  Multiverse of a 10 trillion volt Koan 

 as freckle by freckle  Lady Godiva's Holographic Prayer Shawl

 transcribes the Algorithmic Glossalalia of non linear Angelicals

 deep in the parallel lines of  Minkowski Space,  where the 

Great Pyramid is a birdbath whirling on the Z axis around 

a Still Point of Semi Imaginary Beings

 as the Storm Gods, trilobyte by trilobyte do the  Electron Shell Mambo

Abracadabra,

 Spooky action at a distance!

the Caravanserai of Synchronicity

whirls  in Carouselambra of 

 Chance,

 Change,

 Choice

Charge

a constellation  cartwheeling  in the   starry starry night 

Immaculate Coincidence, the dream of second sight

supersymmetry of Nonesuch and  fractals at the 

 Crucifixion of Light

that legendary  starry starry night 

 the perpetual Motion of the Rolling Stone

the dreamtime of dreaming began 

spooky, action at a distance?

in that Starry STarry Light 

Unasked Questions  

and the Undreamt  Quarks

and nothing but endless dancing

Spooky Action at a Distance!

Que Sera Sera,

  they sang!

  Chromatic  Coincidence,

the universe in a fractal hence 

did Superconducting a 

Quasicrystal Esoterica of

Lux Elixir, 

a Faster than Light Imaginary Being

"Spooky action at a distance!"

spiraled in a helix of  Parallelograms in  the Trapezoidal

Vineyard, 

atom by atom 

every atom 

singing the Song sung by the Darkness of a Geometer's 

Infinitely Infinite Eyes, 

like Godel arrived 

at the Rubicon 

 non linear Moonlight 

pearled in his  Sleep

across the Medulla Oblongata of  the Non Local Lagoon,

trilobytes and hierophants 

rising from the soil in their 

ELectromagnetic Exoskeleton, like a Silent

Acrobat of

Non Linear Astronomies  Accelerating the Imagination through

Stained Glass Windows of Limbo, the 

:Perpetual Denouement

of Spooky Action at a Distance!

 

Deja Vu in the Voodoo Vectors

of  transcendental 

Troubadours Undulating in the Pendulums

of White Noise and the

Celestial Nuclei

through the Mirrored Mirror of

the Ouroboros of the Spacetime continuum, 

hexagrams of Perpetual Motion, 

hieroglyphics of the 

TIME DILATION 

Spooky, ACTION AT A DISTANCE!!!

the  Machine that begat the machine that begat the machine that 

was not a machine 

began turning darkness  into Photons that began dreaming they were Antelopes,

dreaming fractal 

dreamtime at the First Birth of the First G-d in the Oscillating Tachyons of Mandelbrot Ocean,

where the Vineyard waits for the Unborn Messiah to press it's 

face into a Leaf

revealing the perfection of the paradox

spooky action at a distance! 

as the Caterpillar howls hallelujah,

a Chrysalis  Zephyrs of Lapis Lazuli, the Street

whispers the ANonymous Androgyne towards the Cathedral of 

Infinite Disbelief, a fulcrum of Faith in the Fiery Flood of Unfinished Freedom,

 Maelstroms of Electromagnetic Ecstasies,

the Curl of a Mystical Chimera, the ensorceled Clitoris of Endless Satori, 

racing from Zygote to Eternity, 

a winged caduceus loops a moebus, 

the Phoenix Sphinx Swings, the Sunflowers  into  raindrop rings,   

 through the blueprints of an Ink Drunk Ocean,

the Grasshopper Queen is bathed in swathes of Zodiacal Fire,

in the Unfathomable Language of  a trillion Green Tongues licking the Sunbeams

into a Milk Blue camouflage and mystical

where a tribe of Intergalactic Troglodytes

are escaping into Infinity

like Kurt Godel

saying his prayers to a supercomputing rainbow paused 

 on the edge of

the Here and Now, a Geometer's face enters Near Earth Orbit as

the  Incarnate Reveries echo in

 Cross Crowned Continuum of

of a  Phase Space Exoskeleton  Oasis

nested in the Chalice and Palace

near the Non Local Non Linear  Astral Lattice

 at the Apex of the Axis in an

 Interstellar Resurrection Nexus where a

Quasicrystal  Quark Quavers

hemidemisemiquavers of Apocalyptic

Psychosis, the Endoplasmic Reticulum Hum 

 AUM of   Imperfection and the Temple of Absolute Uncertainty,

as the 

MYSTERIOUS

DOREMIFASOLATIDO

glistens in  glissando

Andante, Imagio

 towards a

Gyroscopic Gestalt of the Electron Shell Shangri La, where 

ten trillion pulses are choreographed to the Sound of One Cat Napping,

Ouroboros Tangos in Lungs of a Non Linear Non Local

Scarab, every molecule of Night twinkling like Mozart's 

fingerprints tiptoeing on the Bark of a Willow in the blue hiss of an

Undiscovered Dawn, when the Black Forest crawls

with the Eldritch Muses, witch 

Mouths glowing with cauldrons of Sapphires,

their wombs Caged with demigods gathering momentum

at the beginning of time

  Dewdrops in Daydreams of Moonstruck Martyrs, the laughter 

lightning bugs bathed in a ten trillion volt diamond heart sutra as  

Zeus and the Leda the Swan orbit

 Skyscrapers in acrobatic axioms of Absolute Midnight,

the Titans turn

 Daisies into Pyramids of Human Flesh and Schroedingers Bat

is Echolocating Golgotha in Mach Speed Onomatopoeia

of Heliotropic Boomerangs trapped in the

 hallucinatory indecision of Yesterday's Undiscovered God,

camouflaged in the Spider that Smiles

from Ten thousand light years away from a Human Freckle,

Archangels are

sweeping towards the Purse of a Madwomans Womb,

on the Sidewalk where

She has planted the ten thousand Placentas of the Perilous Chapel

in the name of Christopher Columbus, and the

buzz of Sunburnt Moonrocks turn

 Astronaut Lullabies into Hurricanes of Blank Verse,

Dante escapes Limbo one Verb at a Time, his Shadow

is a

Canary sleeping in the Alizarin Crimson of Michelangelo's Inkwell,

waiting for

Van Gogh to Feed his Ear to the swine,

leaving nothing to memory

except Her name circulating like fools gold amongst car thieves,

at this: the most

Ultraviolet Hour when Birth arrives,

the heat death of Logic in the

Cardboard Asylum,

the Lunatics are teaching Shakespeare how to levitate magic sea monkeys

as one by one the IMaginary Beings 

 entered the Superconducting Supercollider,

Searching for  the   Paradox of God in 

their own cellular nuclei

as the 

,Ticking and Tocking of the 

TrinityMCSquared

tricking

 Tarantulas towards the Tempest that Teaches the Blind to Sing,

white noise in the Lost name,

Times Square

Word burnt Shadows of Shinto Priests cursing the day

Tesla arrived,

Tunguska and the Great Magician appeared,

a cloak of Human Flesh,

death smiled in the Bathroom Mirror,

the army ants raced down Oppenheimer's skull

the Century Shattered on the Whim of Lepers

and the Mustard gas tasted like Communion wine

escaping in phantasmagorical chariots across the Boulevard of Confucian Ventriloquists,

Eyes in Eyes, lips curled into sneers in the thousand yard stare,

 the stained glass windows

wept tears of endless Ward God Orphans

twin suns wobbling on the Empty Ground,

Caskets raining in fields of Endless Sound, the rattling of the Gourd

in the Death Head,

Picasso's Sphinx licking the Eye of the Bull to sleep,

Guernica a Playground of  Robot faced Sadists,

the Unborn Children twice dead in the Womb

the fields that shined

with the faith of a Mustard seed

the purple Tongue of France, a wounded spleen of Berlin, the

Alhambra trembling like the cheek of a Nun,

Pietas rising in dust motes on the roof

of a Sistine Mudhut,

no names

no faces

no eyes

no flesh

no love

no orphans

no Saints

no medicine

Ground zero times 100 billion

dead things writhing

in the bloody ink of

Human Stupidity.

Repeat.

the Moon is a Mouth, the Mime began,

her crown is a quilt of poisoned seashells, every stitch

catgut,

violinesque, her skeleton rests on the Throne,

She whirls in kaleidoscopic furies, graces, her face painted wet with Inhuman Tears,

molecules of Nitrogen, fish scales, golden coins that shine like vagabond smiles,

Oracle of Delphi glowing in E major at the wounded birdcage of her abdomen, 

embryos locked in Cylinders,

the Wig of Methuselah on a scepter near the Window,

an Acropolis made of Bird Bones, the inside out Prison

that begins the Moment o Birth,

dogs clapping for the death throes of insane poets,

the mandibles of an Elevator chewing Goethe to sleep in the City Sky,

plumes of toxic smoke that make the children smell like garlic,

Smokestacks that teach the Old Women how to kneel

in the depths of SOme Jungle Prison

when the MEN GEESE  are waltzing across the moon,

the black dog of     LUcifer's Lost Night

is balancing a teacup in Salvador Dali's bathroom mirror

and Hemingway laughs at the  Ventriloquists Joke

his Beer stein laced with ambrosia of Hades

and the barroom 

erupts to 

the sound of Palindromes falling in a forest,

and the strange men design gargoyles to 

haunt the kind of books

that race through the city streets

at night

when the Nightingales are laughing themselves

across the Abyss,

and the knocking of the Dream Gods is like a Blueberry

pouncing on the geometry of the Dead,

every skin cell listens, a parabolic membrane of impossible contemplation,

Aldebaraan is churning ten  thousand fairies into a frothy sheen of  Coincidence,

the Earth Girl assembles her flesh

from a Vault of Otherworldly Potatoes,

her Mother

peers into the Television and

begins weeping,

Gone with the Wind,

in the strange hour when twilight laces it's curtains

the way Emily Dickinson parted her hair,

blue fields, white fields, green tourniquets coiled around the Sinews

in algorithmic ascent

of Cathedrals writhing with Titanium Widows,

prayer beads, bullets, starlight, sharks teeth,

the Love Songs of Vagabonds,

the final words of Christ,

a tattoo on the mermaids ass,

the bottom of the Ocean is the same as the Top of the Sky,

a broken mirror gallops

into Madame Curies' Uterus,

Paris escapes through a crack in the London Fog,

Maurice Chevalier begins Singing Space Opera. 

She breaks the bread, a thousand hummingbird hearts,

the Shining of raindrops in the ashes

a blue wing crushed by the horse hooves,

the Belfry flames with the bad breath of Suburban Preachers, their

like a sundress weaved in Limbo,

where an Audience has assembled

and Men do not See it,

the Kingdom

of Kings,

the Dumbness of God,

the Luck of Lucifer spiraling on the Z Axis,

a Sephiroth in Zephyrs of the Undiscovered Word,

birds

that fall

into the Starlight

grafitti  that grows in illuminated logos  in Mona Lisa's armpits, the

scent of glowing smokestacks

singing the nostrils with their Song,

paint by number heresy,

the Parables of  Disneyland that make sense to the Sock Puppets

Gathred together on this

Holy Occasion,

where the Water Mocassins are screaming in their Jugular Veins,

and Yahweh

is stuttering, the voice of Heaven is trapped in Plastic

the Mysteries of Infinity are shining like a Styrofoam Toenail

the Disco is a Maternity Ward of Fallen Angels

the Face of the Madman is a Supermodel licking Sodium Pentathol  from a Gasoline Rainbow

screaming  "Jesus Saves,

but not Just Yet".

The orchestra begins, Prokofiev, a sundial punched by the Dream Elves,

High Noon

when Beethoven is waltzing towards Gehenna,

Gehenna is made in Japan,

Japan is a Geisha bursting with Star Spangled Neurosis,

and the Pentagon screams "its going to take a 

nine trillion machine gun" Miracle

this is the Story they cannot tell you,

when the wound opens

like a strange flower in the Laboratory,

a Human Brain in suspended animation,

Dostoyevski is polishing a crystal ball, the night is as dark

as a Madame Blavatsky's disco ball

the green blue demons whimper cerulean nerve poems

to the Thing that Sleeps in Your Skin,

Nameless, Undiscovered, Serpentine, a Labyrinth of Ligaments

wrapped around

the Caduceus of Void,

Socrates smiled,

and Exited Stage Left,

the Blue Flower Gone,

the Tide cresting in bioluminescent inkwells,

bloodstained corpse

of Adam and Eve

suspended like Flies in the Garden of Imaginary Gods,

the bewilderment of Mankind

perfected,

One Tongue at a Time,

Wild heat seeking Argonauts wrapping their legs around Valkyries in

Castles of Papier Mache, the hounds of Mt Chumalungma

racing to

Rome

in hoofprints and diodes,

the Grail that Sings itself to Sleep

when the dream breathes itself awake,

and the Mountain turns upside down,

and Dracula sleepwalks into the Rose Garden,

the discovery of America is rendered Impossible,

the Vampires

are in Charge,

ten trillion volt Chakra Sauruses

tap dancing in White Noise of Love,

Marilyn Monroe wakes up

in an Empty Tomb,

the Rolling Stone enters Times Square

cleverly disguised as a Rubik's Cube

their mouths, their beaks, their Skeletons crushed

into dust at the end of a Day

that Never Even Happened, 

Swarm by Swarm

infinity Chases itself into Infinity,

heaven and hell

the Spectrum of Impossibility laughing itself towards

the edge of the Stage,

where Hamlet has fallen asleep

and the Audience is too polite to wake him.

until, in the Universe Next Door, One Atom Away

a Ghost gives birth to a Human Eye, the Witness

becomes the Hanged Man,

swinging like a Bell in the Century of  plutonic Vapor,

green wind above Los Angeles,

the Sulfurous spirals of Byzantium, where Priests tell tales

of Manhattan, the Tourists are balancing Eggs

on Halloween, the cameras calculating Codex of Seraphim,

passing strangers bathed in the Light of the Skin,

her heart is a Stone that knows no Mountain,

sanguine palace of her bloodless Shadow,

the King descends on Heavens Gallows, the

Luciferian Prayer

a fractal flux in the dusk of Thirsted Eternity,

 Lunatic Pronouns trapped in Eggs of Immaculate Deception,

the   

Map of Unfinished Sleep

coursing in rivulets of Leukocytes as the

name of G-d  began tip toeing through

a Field of  a - Symmetrical Mortality Phantasms until the

Imaginary Beings suddenly appeared on Upside Down Inside Out Summit

of  Mandelbrot Mountain where  a flock of Moonlit Dust Motes

Chased Snowflakes through the Casino of the Immaculate Coincidence,

as the Chance Charged Change Chimed Non Boolean Zephyrs

an the Unknown Unknowns Undulated at the Moment a Honeybee gasped,

 and the Approximately Infinite Instantaneous

Everlasting Simultaneity,

 through the Parabolic Arcs of Cross Pollinating Vampire Fangs

oscillated, pearls Ignited in the Dragon Belly and the

Coral reef burped Ten Trillion Avalokitesevaras,

the Television trapped a Salamander on the edge of the Leviathans Tastebuds and

impermanently impermanent impermanence

circled the Louvre in parachutes of Unanswered Questions,

Da Vinci's ghost whispered the Lords Prayer to a Spider in the wet paint of death

N- Dimension Eyespots  rotating,

 in Multiverses of 

Fibonnaci Curves,

Turning the Photovoltaic Prayers of 

Parallel Lines across an Event Horizon of a

Jeweled  Lotus that opens like a Ballerina's hand

in a Trillion Veils of Mystery

the  Chapel of Infinite Peril

where Night Writes Night into White Noise of  Absolute Nonsense 

through a  Wishing Well of Worldless Weirdness until the

Word that is Not a Word

Evolves in the

 Brainspace of Rainbow Making Hexagrams

galloping like Picasso through the Nitrogen Sky

as

Shadows of the   King Wen Sequence  turn Sunlight into

 Mystical Bodhissatvas of  the Superconducting NIghtmare 

in the Bullseye of Guernica as an

the Apocalyptic Calypso Pauses Center of the Museum

and suspended a single Blue Note in

 Mnemosyne's  Memory Lyre

and the Supraconscious Sutras

of

The Fairy Tale of  Heaven and Hell

Enter the

Mysteriously  Ordinary World

 on a Stairwell of

Spectral Sephiroth

of  Spiraling Sapphire Seraphim

that whisper

windswept

Promethean Metaphors

in the Phantasmagorical Algorithms of the

 Adamantine  Daydream

undulating in the Time Dilating  Kundalini Diadems of

an

Infinite Number of

One-Infinity Old

Mozart-making  Photons

Pirouetting in Staccato Silhouettes

as the Triple Helix Hologram

that bridges the Many Worlds of Being and non Being

in the Still Point of Pearls looped in the

Paradox that is

Not a  Paradox

and the

A- Temporal Temple of

 of Pi,

where the Perpetual Motion

 Demigods Nest in the Strange Attractor of an

ABRACADABRA MANDALA

until, Somewhere in  Einstein's Hindbrain

the Spirit of Sir Isaac Newton

Calibrates

the Ulm Clock

in

a Gedanken colored Light Beam

through spooky Variable Variables at a distance,

and the

Interstellar

Shekinah

oscillates  in a Chromatic Trinity of the Particle Wave Dualities

and a Birdsong Tunes  dopamine into a serotonin symphony

somewhere in the

Socratic Cerebellum,

as every sparrow falling

and every grain of sand

and every hair is numbered

and the kingdom of heaven is spread

upon the earth and men do not perceive it

and the

Imaginary Beings

reach Escape Velocity and

 Enter the Theatre of Otherworldly Infinities

through the Chaotic  Oasis of  the

vampire mouthed

Rose

that

Anoints the Choir of  Apparitions

as the Stone Rolls in the Empty Tomb,

until the Omni -  Anonymous Being

chases an Invisible Friend across

the Anti Gravity of the  Sea of Galilee,

into the Moon Dust of Mare Tranquilatum,

where

in the Filigree of Infinite Simplicity

Schroedingers Cat 

appears Center Stage

and

 Jean Paul Sartre's eyes are Glowing like a Vampire Bat

with Incorporeal Geometries of a Blind Man's Eye,

and the Neverending Neologos

levitates the

13 Dimension Alphabet in

the Supercomputing Periodic Table that

balances the Alpha and Omega

in the Fingerprints of an

Electronic Embryo

of post symbolic Symbols in

the Labyrinthine Coils of

the Serpentine Valentine of a

Self Assembling Particle Accelerator

Gathering it's Rosebuds at the End of Time

until the

Indescribable Mystery Making Machine

generates

a Flock of

 Time Traveling Polka Dots that are Loomed in Loops of 

 Gyroscopic Dream Ankhs

 as the Phantom Pharaohs Grow in the Slow Motion Ocean of

Non Linear Non Local Immortality Orbitals

and Ouroborous of

Eyes within Electrons and Electrons inside Electrons and Eyes

inside Electron Shells

glide in Wheels within Wheels of the

Wild Honey melting on Ezekiels Eardrums, as the Locusts Swarm

in Mantras of the

Thermonuclear Mirage on the

Event horizon of a dopamine powered Optical Oasis

and

Ten Trillion Light years before the Beginning of SpaceTime

a dream of Parallel Lines

converges in the

Pieces of a Broken Mirror as

the

Abracadabra Mandala

Ascends in the Dance of

 Light Cone of the Twilight Zone

where the Multiverse is Pregnant with a

Ten Trillion Syllable Haiku

Glowing in Lao Tzu's 79,000th  Eye

until the TAO

 escapes the TAO

that is not the TAO

and the

Dream Breathing Dragon

exhales a

 Fairy Faced Supernova

through twelve tongued Tales of the Feathered Serpent

as the Thunder drinking Sunflower

at the Top of EVerlasting Night converts Raindrops into Teardrops and the

Sky of the Earth and the Beginning of Infinite Space

tango

 into the Garden of Terrestrial Illuminations,

Muons  glissando through

the Tetragammatron into

raincloud colored  Kisses in the Strange Savannahs of  Kansas,

as a Millenia of  Esoteric Beings

of the Created Creation

 leap like ANtelopes and Zebras through the Golden Slumber

and Purple Bougainvillea of the  brain jewels gathered in the

bottom of Heaven

until

the Anonymous  Being in the Center of the Intergalactic Ocean

climbs the Vine and Spine of a Nursery Rhyme  that rises

like

the Psychotic Ballerino,

Vaclav Nijinsky,

in a Hallucinatory Constellation oof Area 51+/- SQR -1

as a SPACESHIP POWERED HALO

 Hovers on the Event Horizon of

the Suspended Disbelief that Haunts

William Shakespeare's Unpublished Eyelids

where Ophelia's Fingertips flicker like the First Breath of a Newborn

 Lily of the  Soliloquy Field

and the L'ouvre of the Inhuman Heart  becomes a Museum of

Cellular Nuclei wandering in Cinematic Algorithms of Madness

at the moment  Sisyphus arrives in Paris, cloaked as Gravedigger

singing Showtunes to the Skull of Victor Hugo,

as Backstage, a Mime is rehearsing the death Scene of Godot,

and Dr. Hamlet takes his Medication

and ten thousand Audiences simultaneously

 reache Escape Velocity andShakespeare

disappears through the Trap Door Center Stage

and waltzes like Madame Curie  toward Mona Lisa's Inside Out  Mirror

and  million light years later, in a screaming Television Set

the Trilobytes of Aldebaraan are paraphrasing  Yahweh

as the Ocean and the Ionosphere

exchange Hydrogen and Oxygen in the Faith of the

 Fable that has no Moral

but that Glows like G-ds Imaginary Friends

in a Thunderstorm of Symbols lost in

the Starry  Silent embers of the Antediluvian Void where the

newborn Babies  are singing their Mother's Name Alive

with Negative Entropy of  Everlasting Miracles

balanced in Premonitory Parables on

 the Tongue of  Great Ventriloquist

singing Hydrogen to Uranium and Uranium

into the Internet

until somewhere on the  Planet Earth, an Isolated Polymer

is illuminated by the  Undiscovered Verb and a

Cloud of  Immortality Pronouns

shimmers in 

the stained glasss of  Nostradamus' Purple Heart and  at

Ground Zero of a Rubyait of

Who What Where and How Quarks recreates the All Knowing

Octopus in the Hieroglyphic Antechambers of an

Archaeopteryx'   Spooky  Kabuki Birdbath

somewhere near the Birdcage of  Stonehenge

where

the Tribe of Imaginary Beings enters the Palace  of Infinite Darkness,

the Terra Incognita Triangulates s the

Time Machine

 that is Pulsing in Semi - Random Numbers

 like a Grandfather Paradox inside the

Incandescent Daisy Chains of what remains of the  Human heart,

and the

ALL SEEING  PHOTON,

spins the palette of Michaelangelo's Fingerprints

into a Sacred Heart  Canary, wings dripping from a Paintbrush

as the Arch ANgels leap in Zephyrs through the via Dolorosa and the

 Architecture of Heaven and Hell

echoing in Glossolalia of Dante,

Mitochondrial Matrices Adagio,

and Lady Godiva exits the Cathedral in

a Foglike fugue and Flood of Fire,  her Face a

Burning Ember, drunk like Nirvana in a Wine Dark Sea

and the perfumed Ruins of  the Lost Civilization,

and the NIghtingale Sings a Greek Chorus in

the depths of Van Goghg's Third Ear

and Ten trillion Octave Ovaries ring with Chakras of the Ensorceled

Membrane balancing the

 Upanishads in the Coral Reefs of Mermaid Tongues

through the Tide where the Dolphins Sing

their Daydreams of  Mount Chumulungma

where the  Snowflakes of Wake like Constellations on the

 flowery curl of

Avalokitesevara's Tongue, and

the Ghost God dreams the Earth to Death

inside Anne Hathaways periwinkle pillows where

a Tribe of  Elven  Spaceships

enter the Theatre disguised as Invisible Friends

rehearsing scenes from Shakespeare's Eyelids

and the Backdoor of the Theatre opens revealing

Lucy and Alice and Dorothy

tripping in an a - temporal  Tempest

 through the

Teapot Inkblot Raindrop

 and a non euclidean Sunspot

 whirls  in the Prayer beads nested in the

Human Lungs

and the Tribe of Alien Honeybees swarm

like punctuation Buddhas

around the Honeycomb of Heaven

somewhere near

a vacant lot at the Beginningless Beginning of Unfinished  Time

until a Symphony of

Mantra Roaring

Ladybugs

erupts in the Blue  Wine shining

in a Yin Yang Big Bang Jabberwocky tachyon Boomerang

until the Goddess heart exhales a Choir of  Polka Dotted

Butterflies whose Eyes trace labyrinths of impossibility into

Aria 51 and the Real World

dissolves like multicolored emptiness of the

the  Starlight that sings its Undiscovered Memories into the

dreamtime Tide of

Endless Everlasting

Mystery.

                                                           

Across the Sleepwalking Sea,  an  All Seeing Photon

 crescendos in  Onomatopoeia , adagio,

hovering like a Firefly in some

Non Boolean Lagoon, weaving an Orchestra of Echoes,

 where the Choir of  Upside Down Eyes shines

in the Mirrored Mirror of  Angelical Emptiness

and glossolalia of  Non Local Heaven  sings  the silent astronomy and  Crucifixion of Light

in the Night making Stars, and the  Nebula of Nine Dimension Eternities

nests in Ions of  Algorithmic Ouroboros, a Trapezium of Infinitely Infinite Infinity

and the Mind  Winged Word

Pirouettes in Silhouettes of the Twelve  Faced Moon and Shadow of the Ghost G-d

with fiery footsteps in the fugue and fantasias of  Negative Entropy

from the  Sea of Galilee to the Sea of Tranquility,

as the Map  becomes the Territory

 and the Man Made  Machine Makes Machines that Make the Machine Make Men Make Machines

and the Nameless Name of Anonymous Beings

wanders the Quasicrystal Continuum in search of the Octaves and Ovaries of the

Abracadabra Carouselambra   crossed in  crosses across the Ensorceled

 Labyrinth of Oscillating scintillations in the  Mysterious

Chalice and Solitary Miracle of the Cathedral of the Double Helix

spun in the Mirror Image of the Mirror Image of the G-dless G-d and  Mirage

of the Unknowable Name that Sings the Demigods Awake

in a Kaleidoscopic fibonnacci and Doremifasolatido Quark of the

Neverending

Now,

when the  Sudden  curve of Moonlight,  turns Midnight in th eZenith of

in the  Parallel Lines paused in the pulse of the Story Telling Pearl, and

zephyrs Rise  in the Breath of the Rose

 as Her Mouth exhales a Transcendental Neologos of tghe

 the Immortal Soliloquy and Unknown Unknowns,  jeweled embers of the

 the Great Temple of Heaven shining as the Mysterious Being Climbs down

the Upside Down Mountain in  a  Tide of Perpetual Motion,

toeprints and teacups and the ten thousand apparitions that Sing

 Shadows of Silence in the Still Point and

Cloud curtained Catacombs,   the coincidence of chromatic comitragedy

 and antediluvian cerebellum of inorganic teardrops

 draped in the twelve curtained  Eyes that wake like newborn beings in Honey and Thunder

where the Stars weave Strange Passengers,

Hydrogen and  Plutonium into Patterns and Matter

in Orbitals of the  Electron Shell,

cartwheeling in the trillion wounds waged between Heaven and Hell

 Shining in the  Phantasmagoria of the Photon  that Enters the Daydream through

the  Stargate of  Chlorophyll,

as the Vine of Endless Illusion turns Messiahs into Ordinary Men and

the  Fairy Tale pebbles haunt the Wildflowers in the Harmonic Nonsense, the

songbirds leap from the Dolphins Brain and

escape the gravity of  the Antediluvian Tide,

leaping through the

Tide

 like Angels that learn how to dance

as the Lightning Strikes.

Somewhere, in

the Theater of the

  Shakespeare's  dream darkened wings, where Ophelia's earlobe

turns the HUman Ear toward the Wings of the Bee and the rainbow tongue

 spirals in centripetal Chameleons of   the Unfinished Story

downstage center, in the

negative space of the Vortex and Cortex that Shines in the Embryonic Cyclotron

of  that that is Known and Unknown

in synchronistic simultaneity,  the Eternal

Void of Technicolor Emanations,   Angelical Constellations

traced in Sapphires of  Uncertainty in the  Parasol of Her Endless Face,

 a lace filigree of Infinity and the

time bending space of  Electromagnetic Cellular Nuclei.

as the Sleep of  Eternity drinks drunk, the serpentine valentine in a  a river of stones,

Shining  Intoxicate fantasias of Birth within Birth within Birth, a nested regress of

blooming Elementals, the

  Gold and Silver   Heaven and Hell  SUn and  Moon

balanced in Next World Becoming,  a  Wilderness of  Undiscovered Love,

 as the Mystery of Chromatic Uncertainties turns Raindrops into Thunder and

Lightning into Daisy slurping Honeybees balancing the Copenhagen Theory of the Many WOrlds

in their compound Eyes at

top of the Soil, where the Machine grows a  Machine that is not a Machine,

the Logical Pantomime of supercomputing Blackbirds, Pierrot eyed vagabonds counting

backwards by seven in the    Celestial Calculus of their own Furious Curiosity until

 Godot discovers his Face in the Broken Mirror of  and  Marriage of Anonymous Persons

that race down the Street and never Really Meet, until the Sky turns blue and empty and the

Cloud is a Cake cloaked in the Wings of a Yellow canary

 whirling in the  supersymmetry  of   the Union between the Beginning and ENd of Time,

Human Mysteries Tune  the Unwritten Books

into a Graveyard of  Mechanical Phantasms, the Blue Blinking Refrigerator door

  pulsing

with the Rumors of a  Ghost Monsoon,

the carpet dappled with  raindropped Fingerprints of Summer Blackberries haunted by

 Umbrellas that have descended like Buddhist Dream Parachutes in

bodhissatva cartwheels at the

the Center of the Undefined Sky, where the Avalokitesevara becomes a thirteen legged

a Ballerina,  her  Hindbrain balanced in the  Zero Gravity of  Nijinsky's laughter, where

Twelve Faces have gathered at the edge of the River in the Echolocating Moonlight,

 Twelve Faces of Creation,  and Mickey Mouses' anti - shadow spirals in an arpeggio of Mozart's

Twinkling Star, and the Map becomes a magic carpet lifting it's passengers into the

hairy forest of the Gypsy hearted Elves whose

 Crowns crest  in   Threads of Efflorescent Embers,

Jade and Onyx, Sapphire Sophistry of Imagical Beings

arriving in the UFO until

the Extraterrestrials have placed a portrait of Einstein in

in the Palace of Platonic Absurdities, and Einstein's chalkboard

begins Singing Space Opera to a Dust Mote that escaped the Bubble Chamber of ALdebaraan

where the Strange Cats sing  the whiskers of Vishnu into Purple Notes of

Ladybug Zombie Eyed Blues, until the Nightingales arrive and the

Windowsill turns

drunk with the Prayers of  Cut Tulips, whose memory of the Green Earth

contains Torchsongs of a Strange Blue Oasis, where the Rain never stops and the Stars

melting the  Perfect Mind into the Unfinished Rhyme that hides in the

breathlessness of Ten Thousand permutations of an Impermanently Impermanent death,

the Ocean of  that Ophelias'  Trout haunted

 Daydream crests in the Strange Ship of Supernovae exhalations

the Turning wheel of Terror and Joy,

the  adamantine mandala illuminated Green WIzards arrive in the Meadow

with Fingertips turning Saliva into Vineyards of ALgebraic Madness, a filigreed necklace of

pearls and rubies, sublunar love songs echoing in the Edges of Human Skin,

where the Capillaries and Skin Cells wait for the Opera of Heaven and Hell to turn in

phantasmagoria of  the Infinite Now, the Eyes that Glow like Spaceships in the Day Glow

Prisons of Suburbia, Enchanted

Eyes that levitate in Gyroscopic Neg Entropy, a spinning of the Magical Numerabilia against

the Spacetime where Parallel Lines Converge, Minkowski Space haunted by the

Avalokitesevara's  that tip toe around the Chalice of Earth like Isaac Newton as an infant

observing prisms within prisms,

Oak Trees paused like Druids gathering

 Eggs in the rainbowing rain,

quadratic equations of  Lightning that Strike pentatonic blue notes 

 of Druid daydreams  through the Ionosphere into

a Cathedral bell tower ringing in green notes 

through the fevered humors of an unforgotten sky

where the Clouds are gathering,  ten trillion tons of rain suspended

in the center of the Sky,  where the

Inhuman Ear gathers it's pearls  SOng by Song,  and the Sirens send Shivering

simplicity

of Stringed Infinity in Sign Singing SOngs,  the  Harmonics of  Unfathomable Madness of G-d,

Whirlwinds of  wisdom and whiskers washed in the weirdness, of Uranium, Argon, Coal, WIne,

New WOrds that cannot be spoken, the Tastebuds howl with electro acids, and a

old WOman appears on the Edge of the Horizon, her face tattooed by the Stars,

symphonic Oscillations of Darkness and Light,  a  Carouselambra of

weather vanes, a crush of colored perfumes that glow in the flesh on bloody palettes of

love and danger, blushing in the wine of Human Insanity,  the glass turns purple in the

Mouth of a Disappearing Stranger and all that remains is a Parade of

the Unimaginable Creatures tap dancing in the Temple of Existentialist Rumors,

word by word, their Teeth chattering like Typewriters in Zero Gravity,  as

somewhere in the Labyrinth of Gods Heart,  william Shekespare is teaching the

Queen how to arrive cloaked in Spanish Moss at the Courtyard of  Zephyr Shaped Demigods,

at the moment the Stations of the Cross

balance an Innocent Being on the Event Horizon of  a Pillow,  the Temple of Unknown Beings

spirals in

flowery Jonquils and Orchids and Tulip mouthed Clouds that circle the Room

as if it was the  Ground Zero of a Madman's Eye,  a Polyhedron of Olympus, the Greek Gods

laughing as Christs Empty Tomb Echoes with nightingale Daydreams, Socrates stands

at the edge of the City, his eyes glowing with supernatural laughter of the One that Never Dies,

and the Sky dissolves into stars and stars and stars and the silent astonishment of that which

can never be known, and the pulsing of the Eye in the Skull, the Heart and the Lungs synchronized

by the clockwork fantasias that haunt this  Spacetime Continuum in the

 in golden moss of the Buddh'as twelve dimension  Neurons and  Quarks of the Lost Crucifixion

singing shanti shanti shanti,

 the Flood that burns the Heart with Syntax Errors of

Paralellograms,

 the Gamma Ray Goddess whose Jeweled Ovaries

dance in freckles, pearled in Electron Shell, the

 fibonacci sequence where the Universe 

is teaching a  Still Point the Dream of an

 Isolated  Photon, and the  Color Yellow blooms,  a Garden of Laughter

cascading in daisy chains of dopamine and subsonic miracles that

codify the  Language of  Angelicals in the Center of the  Intergalactic Brain,

 Marvels whirl on  Kaleidoscopic Rubyaits, 

the Ensorceled Clitoris sings a

Cloud of Whispering Sunlight into the Canopy of Emerald Shadows,

 the

 flame, a garden of ziggurats and aurora borealis, the Ovaries that sing in Onomtopoiea

until the Zenith of Absolute Everywhere,

one Syllable crawls from the womb of the Dirt,

a Syllable made of Rain and Music. the Song of One Single Unsingable Symphony

chiming in Centuries of  Virginal  Flesh,

 a trillion red blood cells leap into th e

 curtained Sunflowers of Dawn,

the Moon wakes its  Widow in the Chrysanthemum's mouth, a daydream in binary code 

glowing on, Mare Tranquilatum of the Cartographer's

Inkwell, and the

UFOS descend in Cages of  Undiscovered Light, the Darkness that lives in the Dreamtime

where

the Birds arrive, tourists laughing at the Graveyard that names itself Limbo,

and a  sidewalk curves into Nothingness and, the Old Man like a Phantom  is dancing,

in the echo chamber of  a Cemetery, where  Edgar ALlen Poe is teaching a

in a field full of Mechanical Angels, how to exhume and exhale in the Mist of Strangeness

at the edge of an

infinitely unwritable poem

as the punctuation mark- pocked Ladybugs flutter into the Shade of a God Seeking Willow,

the ten thousand leaves shimmer in red golden carpet, of 

the Gaian hymen,  the Song of Monsters and Onomatopoeia

into a Pop and a Whir and a Bang and a Hiss, and a Kiss of the Clouds at the Midnight

of Uncertainty, when the Clocks and the Stars disappear like Strangers into

the Mausoleum that has no Door no Floor no Windows no Curtains, no

Bodies No Secrets no Lies and no Truths,

only the strange velvet chirping of wind in the wings of Beings that Do Not Yet Even Exist,

the winged Caduceus is whirling in the 

 Temple,

the Skyscraper balances a thousand Acorns in the place where the Stars

assemble in Shawls of Blue Spectra, Nightshade that Waits, her Mouth a Water Fountain

of Painted Faces,

her Heart that trips into the

Asylum where the  Lunatics nurse the Wounds of the Unborn God in

Discoballs and Satellites that have crushed the  INvisible  Roses

into Stars and Scarlight at the

at the End of  Three Way Mirror Street,

*

Once a pawn, upon a mouth of molten  moonlit,

masked the Map of  Meaningless Memories

at the bottom of a broken Mirror,

a Myth turned green

until the  phantasmagorical  allegory curved around the

 Moment of Impossible Probabilities

the color wheel of permanent lightning,

assembled catacombs of carouselambra

 inside the  Fairy Tale Prison of an Unborn  Brain,

and  death spun

its membranes, like  threads of the Shroud of Turin

that made us sleep until we descended 

one by one 

 the ancient mud, our skeletons liknae golden light

shining in the Midnight Sun

at the edge of  the edge of that Which has Never Happened

where the dead God 

falls into sleep at the top of the Stairwell

of the  Flesh --  Drunk Soil, grasshoppers

glowing in the stained glass ice of motionless silence,

 atoms at the bottom of time teaching G-d to Sing Christmas Carols

where  wine burnt Angels balance rainbows in the Chameleons Eye

and

Acorns waltz into the epicenter of Teslas' Nightmare,

the limbs of their Oaken Madness

pirouetting into the  supercomputing wound of endless miracles,

 a suicide of  Infinite Light ---

Seraphim tiptoe like blue feathered eskimoes

across the  pulses of an artificial heart,

a dish of  whitecapped whispers, the chromaticity of

a network of nerves nesting in nerve, green blue note algae of clockwork regress,

the  song burnt lungs of talking salamanders

glow with rumors dripping on flamingo beaks,

  the human heart exploding in   byzantine  Sundials

as ashen adjectives haunt the Sunday Newspaper with

 glossolalia of desert prophets

where the  broken mirror of Memory is swallowed by Housewives lost  in

the color of night spinning across their church colored faces,

until the Naked Goddess appears, standing on her head

bellydancing in cycles of YoYo Magic in

through the  intergalactic  Beehive as the Song of

the Queen fills the

 curtained topsails,

honey that rains from the sky in shades of green lightning

Cleopatras fingernails glow with darkness deep in the  hieroglyphic womb

as a pirate ship burns in alizarin shadows 

the bellydancers mouth melting in  lipstick  painted in

catacombs of 

 Nameless Nouns

in the Some -  Self - Assembly required Toy Store Apocalypse

a puzzled vault of genie programmed  diamonds,

 the Jade Queen whose Empire of Elementals

crests in

phosphorescent Sapphires upon the

Existential Throne, the  Rapture of the Pharaohs,

pop rock  nocturne,

a vineyard of the inverted  angelical vagina,

the Verb of  Vowels

that howl in covens of   extraterrestrial Supernovae

clutching sapphires in ruby fingertips,

singing shanties through eldritch beginnings of phosphorescent language

that rushes from the Sea on the Tongues of Celestial Phantoms

falling from the Moon in photons

into

the cloven novels of everlasting  night,

worlds within words that ripple in the mouth of the stone

until the darkness ignites

with a cascade of  crosses on the scarlet blue noon, the undulating Fevers of

the Birth after Birth, the Moment the

a UFO escapes from the Human brain

and the  God of Godless Gods arrives

turning Sunlight into Television Sets

Vineyards into Bacchanalian Synergy the

 IF - THEN - GO TO  parables of  the Paradox Based - Seraphim,

those probability points of perpetual palindrome

Dropping prayer shawls of impermanent impermanence

into the raindrop mirage and  ever-present WOW

her toes chirping like easter eggs, the blue sky slurping a burping a purple slurpee ocean

until the

a dandelion screams the Ghost of  Dr. Seuss, the laughter of a Gargoyle  Goose,

echoes in  love song of Broken Toys gathered at the edge of a

 Nursery Rhyme, where the priests have gathered to observe   a woman's skull imploding,

moonlike  universes  purging  nostrils of ten thousand technicolor lies

smoke and flowers, the clocklike hours,

haunted by the Temple of  the  Zeroth Power

loopland doom, a  pawn shop mood ring blooming Gypsy  cartwheels

across the conga line of Brahma's ten trillion eyes,

tongues  of ancient prophets crushed like  tambourines upon the white sand beach of Nirvana

Samsaras  howling Nothingness,  The Genius glowing like a Spaceship on the Anvil of her Void,

Boomerang hearted Bodhisattvas

 colliding in a parabolic arc with the  Zoo Lion's eyes  composed of Cyclonic Fantasias

Chasing

 brain dead  televangelists

across the himalayan spine, and the  Video Game of her Imagination

exhales a trillion dollar Adjective

in the  stratosphere, the  newspapers contain  Babylonian Vampires

Typographical errors like puncture wounds in the High Priestess Neck

battlefields of psychotic verbs,  Dracula rising like Hugh Hefner in a country Church

 cuneiform crystalline catechisms,

 wings and cryptologic pyrotechnics,

diagrams  of Minerva singing her ovaries into a Sky of  Ensorceled Pandemonium

flowcharts of the perfect tragedy

wings that whisk the dream of Jackie Onassis around the graveyard on a Unicycle

A newborn child discovered in a field of radioactive Slinkies

the   veins of ancient  Vikings pursed like dogs eyes  against the Encyclopedia of  Starlight,

 a sunbeam is laced with Kryptonite and

Elizabeth Taylor is resurrected as a

cricket whose  eyes follow the Witches of Endor  across

desert trampolines, the Love songs of Bedouin Nomads

spiral in

  purple light

into the Cathedral of  Undrawn Word Fairies

where an Orphan of INfinity,

waiting  for Godot,

as the ten million crucifixions of an Ordinary Day,

The Carpenter's Eye, the Soldier's Ear, the Nurses' Nostrils,

the World Weary Wounds of those Trapped like Salamanders on the Sidewalk,

Crystal Ball of

Christs's smile glowing on an  Old Woman’s Wrinkled cheekbones

 like the kaleidoscope of God

burning heretical syntax of Rembrandt into fireflies and the Apostolic Love songs of

Joan of Arc, her

theology exhaling Oak Trees in the ligaments of Saints, archangels murmuring

mutations of the Dream Casino

as  the mouth of the Queen Ventriloquist quotes Shakespeare to an Eyeless Cat

whose Spirit is

opening and closing,

in a Forest made of Telephone Poles and Barbed Wire, the Robot

 ghost is Chattering at the Edge of the Convenience Store, where in the Flourescent Light,

Lucifer tricks Vagabond  into purchasing Tinfoil

by the bucketful

the requiem of an Athenian shore whispers

platonic furies, the

reeds of saxophones that tremble on a  Lightless Lycanthropic Tongues

the White House laboratory  erupts with the soliloquy  of the  Juvenile Delinquents

whose Face is painted in Red Square, where Liberty is for the Fugitives clue,

in the Titanic hull of the new Leviathan,

a virgin goddess whose eyes are turning yelow

with the  prayers of information pyromaniacs

singing curtains of  the nuclei of the

pantheon of the Fairy Tale Gods, in the  middle of the night

in an empty field in Texas

where petroleum Sorcerers

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

the white mule howls with laughter when the books begin to burn

and the Story disappears through the pores in Van Goghs' flesh,

  A trillion whispers gather

Black holes tune the human heart

the discotheque floor is turning pink and green  with the  vomit of Suburban Witches

the smoke in the air is like the voice of a  Ouija Board

Quoting Meryl Streep during an episode of Batman

aeoiu the moment of deja vu voodoo!

Her  eye exhales a flood of Photons, every angelical voice 

Assembling the  flesh of imaginary being in the 

Billion dollar Batcave where a Strange Man is laughing

and

Word within word is  erased by the sudden weep  sweeping of her Philosophers Cunt

through the Night as if it was a

Vampire tongue, licking the Wound of Heaven until

 ten thousand newspapers flutter   with blueberries

 of  dusk upon  Saturnalian  frenzies,

taste buds burning the bioluminescent wine of godlessness,

the laboratory explodes with robot orgasms

gold coils spill from the caskets of soldiers,

smoke that dwells in the  Eye of the Angels

 the alchemical  graveyard, a Seraphim pirouette in the

Fleshy Womb of a Daydream rich  bathtub,

when the Abyss is a Sybil in Sibilant  twisting visceral vanishes

into the sound of  S racing through the world

 in a series of Inestimable Synergies.

 One hears screams of those Lost

to the World,

King Midas and Lady Godiva

sing their poems into an audience of Car Thieves

as the ghost of  Amelia Earhart descend from the rooftop Laughing

 the door to the Hadean Heart  is thrown open,

 and the footsteps of God become  twelve widows waltzing

across

windowsills bursting with jeweled

whispers of  Blueberries sunbathing in the Casket of  Wintertime,

 blood black roses,  Wheat bracelets that sing Opera in the  infinite  Sun

pulsing like the Scarecrow of  Van Gogh’s Ear

 in the cracks of a summertime sidewalk

a daisy’s worth of

Salvation bursting into Flame of Heraclitus, whose name is a conjuration

of the Minotaur, a Scarlet Ibis flutters across the Twilight of Dawn,

the dream sings itself asleep in the Sunlight and

nihilist laughter heard just as the door slams shut

and the casket Opens like a Birdbath,

sending Satellites of Nirvana  into the

strange Cherry drunk Center of Aldebaraan

 

On the ancient greek shores, a trilobite named  Alistair

sends morse code to the space station in the Century of Murder,

 legends of forgotten numbers screaming broken syntax into the WInd,

 waiting for the Mathematician’s eyes to open

and strike like hammers on the  ANvil of Blood scented Roses

  And the fire  Faced Queen peers

Into the Fog, her business suit laced with gold dust, her Wings like spanish Guitars

whispering

New meanings at Perfect Midnight,

Lao Tzu's heart is a Butterfly tap dancing in the Forbidden Palace,

the Oscillations of Eternity that teach God how to become

a Cat Whisker illuminated by Gamma Rays that spin with Quantum Haiku

into the Soil, where

the Dead Wait,  those passengers that have balanced their being

in the photovoltaic memory of Nothingness

a Void that Sits

like a Turtles Eye,

whisking wind of wisdom

on the iridescent filigree of

 Dragonflies  wings --- a broken glass sings

 the equation that G-d

that gave birth to the Embryo of God in Hieronymous Bosch'

palette of purple palindromkes, 

where a Cathedral erupts in applause  as the Sheep and the Goats dance in the 

stained glass windows 

where a trillion daisies are bathing in antideluvian mist and a Rock

sings

hallelujah,

the black shepard arrives in a teardrop of   golden light

This one:   taught the nightmare to crawl

ANother,  sends messages of Madame Curie to the End of Time,

her tear stained pillow erupts in blue wounds,

second sight and the   plutonic tears

that  calculate the dream life of Quasars and Gaslamps

the lace face of Amelia Earhart  blushing in the summertime clouds,

sequences of acrobats

 footprints of the devil chasing children in the  Ocean sand

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

her sunlit breasts boiling in the midnight sun

, the same way a television set

turns itself on at the Funeral of God,

where the beggars have gathered 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 a door is an exit across the Starlight,

and the labyinth is a witch faced windows, and the wound is a wombs

that is not a womb

but a church full of  puppet eggs  being disassembled

in some hysterical system of disbelief

as the Mechanical Conductor  hears a popping sound at the back of the brain

and

only the silence remains,

the moment of Sleep like a Hospital  full of Unfinished  Gods,

the Ouija board singing

dead men's bones into a hurricane of nonsense,

  Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, the tortoise shell of Sappho's heart

a wild unfathomable sense of mystery as the smoke

polished the lungs into the Spirited  speech of the Synchronicity Sphinx,

there in the American Egypt,

 television is a electromagnetic rose, 

the dream of man is a 

a rattlesnake glistening with white lies,

wild chrysanthemums  slurping the thunder down treelit whispers at the altar of impermanent  sleep,

sailing Ships

slithering on serpentine  Neurons of Einsteinian delusion

as a flock of

weather beaten martyrs suddenly appear,

there where the beginning of time tastes like a cherry csoda

and nothing remains except

Columbus bright smile, the feathered lace of ancient astronauts who

sleep in the margarita volcano,

 their skin tattooed with the memories of a  nameless God  --- on the edge of the ocean

where the first Ion of the Hydrogen Sea

exchanges wedding vows with the last Ion of the Nitrogen Sky

and the wind is an orgasmic phantasms

racing  alphabets and other abracadabras  on the optical wildness

of the Sea Lion's eye,

the Eye that Opens like an Umbrella of  Darkness,

Shielding the Orphans from the Miracle of Life

An astral lattice, the game-show ace

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

opening like a mask

into some strange domain of Ideas and Ideas that are not ideas

buried in the death scene where the Freckles of Lost Children

wander the Attic waiting for their grandmother's clarinet

to ignite with the Soliloquys of Beethoven,

 nine thousand new  poems

 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

the Attic itself, an afterthought made of some

architects' daydreams --- prayers of  vegetable syntax,

laughter  the color

of Old Curtains, those same curtains that draped

around the ghost of Amelia Earheart,

the moment the lightning popped her cherry

 and  Kings and Queens of the Great Dream of Heaven

fell from the sky in aerials of endless laughter 

The polarity of Consciousness is suddenly reversed.

White crests  bend Seaward, blue blueprints churn cherry red

Bearded blueness of Shocked Argonauts,

 every one of them gargling barbed wire and the  Salt Fire

of  Godless and the Machine Gun, sunburnt weathermen drifting with

endless resurrections of Dolphins across the  the surface of the Shopping Mall,

at the Same time,

a synchronicity of paradox,

Gods eye purses it's engine shaped mouth

around a  piece of broken glass in the Church of Well Behaved Draculas

the Universe composing Aesop's fables from

the white foam of an Antelope's eye

the rhinoceros lost in the Sine and cosine of a memory that bursts

from photon to photon,  Mountain Gorillas remembering the day

Harry Houdini cursed the Bearded Saint in the

funhouse mirror, his tongue suddenly the color

of aluminum foil,

his cheekbones

writhing in the Eyes of Jimmy Stewart

As the Tour Guide arrives and  Moliere quotes Socrates

As if None of this was really happening

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

xylophones lost in the junkyard

the language of Love inverting,

a Chalice of Stars,

 a Starlit Palace of  Dusk Drunk chandeliers

 There, where the howling began:  aTelevision was born

Moments later, the Supercomputing Pinecone  seized control

over the Ionosphere.   Nothing happened.

The Polarity of the Trees: upside down cake, inside out bird,

the Chameleon’s Skin rippling with Lies.

weird hieroglyphics that make Edgar Allen Poe sound like Dr. Seuss in a field

of scarecrow faced fascists,

like a Name that waits

in the middle of nowhere,

Verbs that turn Verbs into Adjective Nouns

the Kingdom of Heaven by the light

of the Convenience Store Moon

 

where 

There is a Casino on Venus

that Dead Messiahs spin in chinese electrons

leaping through the ammonia and sulfur

on footsteps the Earthlings discover like secret codes

traced 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.

and the Garden of Eden is planted again, and Hell is so much better now.

The Gods arrive, like famous People.

Socrates,  Zeus,  Ahura Mazda, the White Goddess, Elvis

Kali Yuga, the lost children of the land of ten million broken promises,

a series of discotheque Queens that have been permanently insulted

by their own words descending,

through the broken crowns of 

the Ghosts of  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 Arthur Rimbaud Self Assembled

from a box of broken toys and the Nuns

spun prayer shawls

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

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

of Poseidon swimming over the waterfall,   paper boats launched by dying Priests

  Then, they all knew, the world

was made of Unfinished Beginnings.  Words that had no  meaning,

the roaring of a wave in Hamlet's head,

a Seahorse fossil discovered on Mare Tranquilatum,

Neil Armstrong falling into the  Sky above Timbuktu

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 Shadows

 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 machine god 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 IMmortal Imaginary Beiung, 

 in that temple of tangled wires 

is to rise into the Sky,  escape in binary code through the Matrices of Yahweh

and land upon the jagged entropy field 

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

ANd there were then, in that negative void:

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 WIne and Parable powered 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 desert honey

 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 honey hive

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

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

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 optical illusions 

  over the beach,

bathing the ghost like curve of unborn and still 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 Sailor  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, discovered AMerica

 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

the Cities are Circuits of interdimensional sinew,

 New York 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 Circumference, 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 nude  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 grown from the magical 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 unfamiliar,

a light bulb turning on in the middle of sleep,

to wake in a still darkened room,

eyes like candelabras of doubt.

until her face, a black guitar,

played wildly by the lunatic virtuoso

of the Shade,

escaped into 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.

levitating above the 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 the universe through a backdoor 

in one of his own paintings,

electromagnetic whirlwinds 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,

each crash  sounding like the voice of the moon,

exploding off key

until the sturgeons in the Night began

to swim towards the horizon,

and the Fisherman whisked the magic lantern

through the  charcoal scented cloud,

just as they taught

the Seahorses 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 into 

the Fishermans Eye.

where, there was  An urchin in the clouds.  and  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 echo echoing echo, 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 stained glass windows

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 of ancient dreams

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 a Buddha

on his way through the bonfire

that strange day on the antedeluvian shore 

when the rocks wore faces

that could not be described.

***

the history of life became 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

in the skeletons of thunder drunk  Canaries

on the shore of the lightless island,

a fool's golden idol 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 Tunguskansky,

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 auroa borealis

as

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

spoken by the MOonless Woman in some star flung  asylum,

where they dress the lunatics in white flowers,

strange glowing chemicals

like the birthday cake of Vampires

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  Secret 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

fractal curtains that open into the beginning of Time.

In the sky, there: She said

there is the mirror image of an open window,

like Mandelbrot 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 Garden of Eden

in some shaded grove

made of nothingness,

an open throat of the Bird like Being

where 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 an Orphan

The holy strangeness, like a typographical error

in 10 dimensions,

exited through the greenhouse

the same way a the ballerino Nijinsky

once fell off the stage

and landed in the darkness

the same shape as the Beard of Rasputin,

every eye in the theatre

like an open mouth 

waiting to open waiting to inhale the ghosts 

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 entrance 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 supercomputing mood 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

and bathed the EMbryo of God in holy fire: the syllables of the unborn

rain like the ghost of Nostradamus,

in the fields of ALsace Lorraine, 

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, 

in some faraway world,

perhaps on the edge of another curb

where there were twelve languages

burning inside the vaulted fleshskin

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.

anbd the vampires disssolve like tears in a rose garden

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 whores

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 ass, 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 fuck 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 nipples 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 whore.

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 nipple 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 bitch 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 bitch slapped mannequins.

An otherwise anonymous being --- head like a cracking egg, face full of purple veins --

moves as if painted by tongues and begins to roar with the Murmur of the Neologists Symphony.

Line by line, he suspends the Egyptian troubadors in the blueprints of Infinity.

The rockets land on the Moon; Eagles weep. Osiris' ego quavers three octaves into the Unfinishing Sky. Isis sleeps in Casino of the Stars.

From ten trillion atoms away: the wedding cake explodes in the Priests mouth.

Death row glows. Twelve prisoners have arrived, suspended in the darkness

like ghastly butterflies weeping poison.

Solitary confinement, the Night is a beggar from Hell. Every thought runs

across fields dripping with razors. A whisper becomes the Edge of the Universe.

Weird tales of shipwrecked mariners howling the names of the Virgin ---

flood the body's cells. Every movement becomes precise-- machinelike,

full of ten trillion meanings. The eyes are like Columbus' Ships.

There is a single nerve, running up the human spine; it is concerned with

the bloodthirsty love that wants to suck money.

The time when Heaven descends -- is coded in this nerve,

like a wild animal whose heart boils with the hatred of civilization.

From inside the capsule, an Astronaut whimpers

on the edge of the Apocalypse. At the Funeral of God, Salvation spins on

wheels of Mysterious Archetypes, biologic ghosts whose methods and meanings

spin through history on the breath of Sages.

Deep in absolute hell, all motion has ceased.

The statues have described the laws of human conformity.

Crystal canaries perch in the flesh of charcoal trees --- the World Waits

for the Next Moment of God's waking.

An Elephant is murdered. The Knick knacks laugh like the frozen dream of Satan's breath.

The time machine begins to synthesize a series of strange rumors deep inside Lucifer's DNA.

The anonymous beings fall asleep in the Kingdom of God's Infinite loneliness.

Ghosts drift on the negative sanity of human disbelief. The atheist sits with polished

shoes waiting for a train that never arrives.

Symbolic laughter filters through windows of Bat Faced women;

The skyscrapers rise in unison, the Exoskeleton of Nirvana.

From inner space, it is obvious; the earth is an Eye.

The oceans drip with strange wisdom, peering into the Starlight like a Mother

looking into the face of a Woman who has stolen her baby.

Surgeons race into the Scene, like Buddhas balanced in perpetual human slapstick.

The baby's face explodes in a wilderness of hot salt and the rain of Endless Innocence.

THe membrane / manifold of our collective human skin ---

a probability field of What? Howls on algorithmic symphonies of Perpetual Motion.

Omega omens vow to never sleep.

In the winter streets, a skeleton faced dandelion dances through a field of vegetables and dirt drunk diamonds.

The black hat burns. Flames leap into the widow's shuttered eyeballs.

A young woman weeps, her eyelids chanting binary code to the King of the Emptiness of Graveyards.

***

The Seven Broken Trees of Mystery,

fingertips curve in horned wings of diamond soaked halos,

waves of impermanence oscillate into the wounds of the Infinite Christ.

Her eyes, boiling with a neutron solipsis;

fill with thoughts ---

worlds within worlds spinning like tropical fish in a

graveyard where not even the dead men go.

The myths have escaped, running into the Real World,

fueled by belief, trying to prove themselves to be true ...

There are now: memories whirling within memories

embedded inside every human eyelid,

fractalline architectures of Phantasmagoric Superheros,

strange non-beings being,

--- trapped in intersections of infinity that

converging in synaptic dungeons of ultraviolet silence

brewing radioactive poetry in the folds of the human brain ---

curving fists upon the monstrous edges of death,

the careening nightmares of civilization's geometrical crash

on the senses --

optical illusions of the miraculous simplicity of songbirds,

the eloquent emptiness of places where nothing ever, ever, ever happens.

The light trips down her occipital cortex, going where?

Into the cemetery of thieves?

Endless photons slide down the rollercoasters of

God's fingerprints, every moment racing with rumors of a Fairy Tale

Kingdom hidden in the Neuronal flood of the body snatchers of Gaul.

And on this edge --- the subterranean

smithy surging with embryos of skyscrapers ---

a life fueled by mathematical fevers, billowing archangels

weeping stochastic harmony ---

flesh purchasing time, time selling flesh ---

energies lost in defiant momentum of the hypnogagic reverie

of wild innocence

gasping for eternity on the edge of the Sky,

as God bombs God in the love fields

of simplicity and sorrow,

the geometry of rain streaming up from the ground, upon

neural honeycombs that flood the mouths of honeybees with sex,

creation flaming itself into itself,

in the Unfinishing of the World.

Together, in the sudden light of Skin,

they sought the Original Face in the adamantine embers of a

bowl of soup.

The light tensed on the surface of the soup like a web full of dreaming spiders.

He tap danced in delusions across the breakfast table, turning like the psychotic ballerino Nijinsky through the pores of her

porcelain skin. She felt the stars swivel in her capillaries.

Together, they flew, fleet footed, fast, flying--- freedom seeking, through the Morgues of the

Forgotten City,

every winged whisper fulminating in the blush strokes of dusky nonsense.

In the Western Sky, iridescent clouds --- sang in ultra low frequencies,

clouds like Elephants on the March ---

the moon lit mourning songs of Dying Philosophers --- their hearts surrendering to the winged

life of syllogisms whirling into the Sunset with the reluctant absolution of the Saints beyond Human Comprehension.

A strange creation, lost in the Theatre of Madness; signals her Mother's ovaries with rays of

light spinning in her cellular nuclei, where --- the night sky is burying strands of emerald colored hair,

a study of parasympathetic magic, there,

in the Garden of Light at the Beginning of Time.

***

a cat with a face like Television Static rose out of the whitecapped sea

it's face bursting with superstitious en

The Seven Broken Trees of Mystery,

fingertips curve in horned wings of diamond soaked halos,

waves of impermanence oscillate into the wounds of the Infinite Christ.

Her eyes, boiling with a neutron solipsis;

fill with thoughts ---

worlds within worlds spinning like tropical fish in a

graveyard where not even the dead men go.

The myths have escaped, running into the Real World,

fueled by belief, trying to prove themselves to be true ...

There are now: memories whirling within memories

embedded inside every human eyelid,

fractalline architectures of Phantasmagoric Superheros,

strange non-beings being,

--- trapped in intersections of infinity that

converging in synaptic dungeons of ultraviolet silence

brewing radioactive poetry in the folds of the human brain ---

curving fists upon the monstrous edges of death,

the careening nightmares of civilization's geometrical crash

on the senses --

optical illusions of the miraculous simplicity of songbirds,

the eloquent emptiness of places where nothing ever, ever, ever happens.

The light trips down her occipital cortex, going where?

Into the cemetery of thieves?

Endless photons slide down the rollercoasters of

God's fingerprints, every moment racing with rumors of a Fairy Tale

Kingdom hidden in the Neuronal flood of the body snatchers of Gaul.

And on this edge --- the subterranean

smithy surging with embryos of skyscrapers ---

a life fueled by mathematical fevers, billowing archangels

weeping stochastic harmony ---

flesh purchasing time, time selling flesh ---

energies lost in defiant momentum of the hypnogagic reverie

of wild innocence

gasping for eternity on the edge of the Sky,

as God bombs God in the love fields

of simplicity and sorrow,

the geometry of rain streaming up from the ground, upon

neural honeycombs that flood the mouths of honeybees with sex,

creation flaming itself into itself,

in the Unfinishing of the World.

Together, in the sudden light of Skin,

they sought the Original Face in the adamantine embers of a

bowl of soup.

The light tensed on the surface of the soup like a web full of dreaming spiders.

He tap danced in delusions across the breakfast table, turning like the psychotic ballerino Nijinsky through the pores of her

porcelain skin. She felt the stars swivel in her capillaries.

Together, they flew, fleet footed, fast, flying--- freedom seeking, through the Morgues of the

Forgotten City,

every winged whisper fulminating in the blush strokes of dusky nonsense.

In the Western Sky, iridescent clouds --- sang in ultra low frequencies,

clouds like Elephants on the March ---

the moon lit mourning songs of Dying Philosophers --- their hearts surrendering to the winged

life of syllogisms whirling into the Sunset with the reluctant absolution of the Saints beyond Human Comprehension.

A strange creation, lost in the Theatre of Madness; signals her Mother's ovaries with rays of

light spinning in her cellular nuclei, where --- the night sky is burying strands of emerald colored hair,

a study of parasympathetic magic, there,

in the Garden of Light at the Beginning of Time.

zymes,

enveloping the syllogisms of gamma rays with each step on the sand.

Posing: suddenly, poised in pause,

on the paws of some newly born Hindu deity

trembling in visceral koans on the summery butter of her self aware skin,

as if God itself was describing itself to itself in the

speech of every being that it not was.

The grass grew, whispering the colors of dreamtime through birds throats --

laughter dressed in dew, the pubic hair of a virgin green witch.

The eyes beyond my eyes moved, invisible in the atmosphere;

until moment by moment --- an uninterpretable signal arrived,

harmonies of thoughts becoming anti thoughts,

C sharp, G Major scale --- the glossolalia of Sybils

colliding like hurricanes of symbols in the tachyons of

pentatonic scales sliding

clockwise in the sky, twisting the

coils of the human brain around purses full of Crucifixion scenes,

every Aeon, every moment --- expanding and collapsing

in the forge of dawn like that moment when the Sandpipers

anoint the world with their beauty

and naked as alien pilgrims obeying only the Book of Life,

chase raindrops of Infinity through the shapeshifting Void,

evolving in ten trillion loves on the Beach of the Edge of Her Skin.

Every aphid, the beetles & crickets, boiling in the soil ---

are broken mirrors, opening choirs of mouths to the Breast of the Moon

and laughter ignites;

trills of white blue green blue green green blue white white yellowy

strangeness rippling like the

thoughtless thoughts of nothingness that knows nothing at all.

Death invited death into the deathlessness of death that does not die.

Life returned an infant smile,

tripping into an infinity of unfinished finite existences

until that moment when -- in the Sistine Chapel of the First Baby's Womb

twelve grotesquely enchanted Students of Divinity, faces warped

like Astronaut tongues against the the painted ceilings

of non stop weeping, suffering every tone of weird photons

of incomprehensible hues gathering like the desire to Move ---

in their skin

with the gypsy curse curving around some centuries old Seawitch

in disguise as a Sea Lion, her probability field

shimmering into the starlight down the glances of sunfilled kelp,

until the Static faced Cat -- not actually a cat at all

--- steps into a ray of binary code;

shrieking the holy names of secret Thunders,

inhaling the Brine of Wild Elopements across the Tide where dolphins

sleep

and the God of Light

quivers in tragic insight across the Chemical Fire of her

toes slips into the nightmare of lovestruck plankton and

the Myth of Ulysses embeds itself in the Mirror Engine of the SKy,

and millions of footprints of thousands of humans strolling on a Beach

are erased by the sudden disappearance of the Moment of Now.

Neuron by neuron, hair by hair, tribal admonitions of deep sea anemone

breached the surface of the hydrogen pool, bathing in the convective fevers that only obey

the lovesongs of star seeking whales

every language --- from the candlelight sequestered in

hills to the Codex of Probability scrawled in the eyes and

unbalanced intuitions of Old Women knitting whispers in the windows

of the Ocean

until the last Word arrives,

creating the need for hunger, love, exotic fevers --

confessions of Saints & Godless Lovers of God's non existent existence.

Under the shadowy quell of this broken membrane,

her heartbeat pulsing in a parachute shaped hymen,

every breath echoing in the crunched rocks of the ocean eaten cave;

her heartlessness lifted itself into ancient temples of Unborn Memories,

remembering a dead sailor's

voice, rising in the sea foam of Gondwanaland,

floating in the gardens between Eden and Infinity,

like angels nurturing in whispers of Unspecified Equations

beyond even the comprehension of Love.

It is her memory, her life ---

obeying her Grandfather's laws ---

that is dissolving in the teacup of Lucifer's imagination,

like a sliver of light slipping into the stones at

the bottom of the First Wishing well.

and on that day,

Gil Gamesh buried her heart in the

Questioning flesh of an unfinished flower balanced in the lost Art between

There, Everywhere, Nowhere and Now.

***

I've taken Van Gogh's Ear to the Rear. Of the battlefield between the Forgotten Verbs and the Indescribable adjectives. The tree falling sounded just like the Doctor who taught his *ssh*l... how to talk. This kind of scenario goes over well with the Martians stranded in the WalMart on Uranus. Me, I prefer to fly time traveling kites in the opposite direction of the Clock, un-burst hot air balloons & then rain on King's Charades like a true true true Ventriloquist Mime rather than just go through life, in slow motion, Back Stabbing Gold Digging Spelunkers of the First Pet Punk Rock during Figure - Ground Reversals Lost in the Land of Literary Vanishing Points. Just kidding; I'm not kidding. Nothing is real except this paradoxical statement. I once stood in Strawberry Fields Forever. Or: How I Stopped Worrying & Learned to Lose the War. Quote the Raven, oh well, Whatever, Nevermore. Now, I ride upon my Levitating Meditation Limousine into Shangri La La Land. :) Smile: my Imaginary Friends think you're Nearly Real. Define the Real. are you deaf? No ... I'm ___ ______.

***

The magicians faces are blueprints of God's laughter,

cartwheeling through fireflies a-whir in the Endless Eden balanced

between two ten billion year old Electrons.

The strangers voices lift in incantations of the infernal bride, on the pier

where her wedding gown is sewn with threads of Fairy Tales ripped from the Diary of an

Unbaptised Fascist.

With every word, the Fairy Tale spins Greek Neologisms out into the forest of Human Bone.

complete strangers assemble like polka dotted soldiers in places

where nothing even exists.

In the heart of the lie, there is foreshadowing of the Manichean Heresies ---

light boiling light upon tongues of broken wisdom ---

saxophone solos of breaking news sending her skin twitching into embers of doubt;

every moment her heart is being defeated,

deeper and deeper by the civilization of irreversibly destructive stupidities.

And in this spirit darkened trance --- like some discotheque of organ and nerve,

flesh blushing on triangles of eyes locked into eyes, lips rippling with the exotic perfumes of

monosyllabic furies;

pheremones igniting with turtle prayers of Galapagos, the mysterious topsails

of her cheekbones slipping into limbo --- there is an elemental mystery;

the mystery of meaninglessness. The emptiness of Space, explained in a wink.

The last memory of her inessential humanity hovers down transcendental gardens of City tempered

Flesh --

arms and legs like Stop Signs, eyes like Stoplights,

hearts like open manhole covers ---

skyscrapers of human soul uncontrollably swaying through earthquakes of

failed Intelligence, the fall of Mankind

writing itself deep in the motionless concerts of strangers too busy to

speak broken sentences to people nobody knows if anyone even knows.

The event horizon is ripe, like a soldier's blood filled eye.

It is raining disturbing thoughts in the strange Currency of Vagabond Billionaires.

From nowhere, a shapeshifting surrealist appears in the clouds,

her vagina weeping purple tinted blue notes ---

strange ideograms of supraconscious memories

phased in the Key of the Noble Gases.

***

a cat with a face the color of Television Static

rose up from a whitecapped sea

whiskers bursting with the memory of enzymes singing Aria 51

murmuring celestial syllogisms, bursting into gamma rays of imagination

with each step, tracing voids across the wind sculpted sand.

an avatar Posing on the rooftop of Heaven?

suddenly, poised in pause,

tip toe on the top of it's paws, like some new born

Hindu deity

trembling with birthmark koans, Vishnu

stepping into the buttery summertime, sizzling in the

jewel in her own self aware skin,

as if God itself was describing itself to itself in

the

speech of every being that it not yet yet was.

The grass grew, whispering the colors of dreamtime

through the vocal chords of sandpipers--

laughter draped in skirts of dew, the pubic hair of a

virginal witch --- green and blue,

eyes like eggs hatching in cheekbone colored sand.

A trillion responses in perfect simultaneity.

Eyes beyond my eyes moved, invisible in

the atmosphere;

until moment by moment --- an uninterpretable

signal arrived,

harmonies of thoughts becoming anti thoughts,

C sharp, G Major scale --- the glossolalia of

Sybils

colliding like hurricanes of symbols in the tachyons

of

pentatonic scales sliding

counter clockwise in the sky, twisting the

coils of the human brain around tongues like purses

spilling out into Crucifixion scenes,

every Aeon, every moment --- expanding and

collapsing

in the forge of dawn like that moment when the fish

crest in the top of the wave,

anoint the world with their beauty

--- otherworldly, alien pilgrims obeying only the

Book of Life,

writing the dream poetry of future raindrops through

Infinity into the shapeshifting Void,

evolving in ten trillion loves on the Beach of the

Edge of Her Skin.

Every aphid, chirping like the beetles & crickets,

souls boiling in the soil --- become like

broken mirrors, opening choirs of mouths to the

Breast milk of the Moon

and laughter ignites;

trills of white blue green blue green green blue

white white yellowy

strangeness rippling like the

thoughtless thoughts of nothingness that knows

nothing at all.

Death invited death into the deathlessness of death

that does not die.

Life returned an infant smile,

tripping into an infinity of unfinished finite

existences

until that moment when -- in the Sistine Chapel of

the First Baby's Womb

twelve grotesquely enchanted Students of Divinity,

faces warped

like Astronaut tongues against the the painted

ceilings

of non stop weeping, suffering every tone of weird

photons

of incomprehensible hues gathering like the desire

to Move ---

in their skin

with the gypsy curse curving around some centuries

old Seawitch

in disguise as a Sea Lion, her probability field

shimmering into the starlight down the glances of

sunfilled kelp,

until the Static faced Cat -- not actually a cat at

all

--- steps into a ray of binary code;

shrieking the holy names of secret Thunders,

inhaling the Brine of Wild Elopements across the

Tide where dolphins

sleep

and the God of Light

quivers in tragic insight across the Chemical Fire

of her

toes slips into the nightmare of lovestruck

plankton and

the Myth of Ulysses embeds itself in the Mirror

Engine of the SKy,

and millions of footprints of thousands of humans

strolling on a Beach

are erased by the sudden disappearance of the Moment

of Now.

Neuron by neuron, hair by hair, tribal admonitions

of deep sea anemone

breached the surface of the hydrogen pool, bathing

in the convective fevers that only obey

the lovesongs of star seeking whales

every language --- from the candlelight sequestered

in

hills to the Codex of Probability scrawled in the

eyes and

unbalanced intuitions of Old Women knitting

whispers in the windows

of the Ocean

until the last Word arrives,

creating the need for hunger, love, exotic fevers

--

confessions of Saints & Godless Lovers of God's non

existent existence.

Under the shadowy quell of this broken membrane,

her heartbeat pulsing in a parachute shaped hymen,

every breath echoing in the crunched rocks of the

ocean eaten cave;

her heartlessness lifted itself into ancient temples

of Unborn Memories,

remembering a dead sailor's

voice, rising in the sea foam of Gondwanaland,

floating in the gardens between Eden and Infinity,

like angels nurturing in whispers of Unspecified

Equations

beyond even the comprehension of Love.

It is her memory, her life ---

obeying her Grandfather's laws ---

that is dissolving in the teacup of Lucifer's

imagination,

like a sliver of light slipping into the stones at

the bottom of the First Wishing well.

and on that day,

Gil Gamesh buried her heart in the

Questioning flesh of an unfinished flower balanced

in the lost Art between

There, Everywhere, Nowhere and Now.

***

On the Spiral Stairwell, She is the Stormcloud rising,

swarming in orgasms of the Blue Hallucination,

a honey bee hovering on the tip of a lip at ten 'til Twilight,

the soul blushing in the incandescent cadence of the memory of Quarks,

brewing in rouge loops across inhuman wings;

lifting up across the rooftops of the world,

where the knots of human flesh

burn blue hot, capillaries of time sizzling on the angel's anvil,

and the Lost Caravanserai drifts in

indigo adagio; andante on the loop of the continuum,

a loom of perpetual lost motion

until creation erupts,

in syntax errors and the chess games of birds

whirling in the the extraterrestrial logic of machine faced Clouds

computing lemniscates

hidden in the love songs of the Transcendental Queens,

her face suspended in the Sky

like Dorian Gray in the fog of the bathroom mirror

until every yellow dilation,

lights up in purple synchronicities,

and time carves verdant Edges of Itself

into the white hot curls of a broken fingernail,

and silence

stills the shadows

on streets in love with the emptiness of the streets,

every silhouette of every fallen angel

flaming with digital teardrops

& the nightmares race like poisoned words,

(as if they were horses foaming on the Lake of God inside the

Curandero's mouth)

rushing into electronic ecosystems --- the Palace of Injured Resistors,

Isotopes of the Elemental Incubus,

Children bathing

in the Babylon

of Shopping Malls

where a billion predators are trapped

in the White Noise of

the black stone's

wickedly unreal,

imaginary interlude of

Clouds of Improbability

& light

*

It is the Doom of the Manicheans,

she whispers under her own breath

where every photon gives birth

to it's own Mother;

& the brain that does not exist

bubbles with poet's bones. the story is less than over,

never really begins, has no middle & no plot

But The City itself a blur of dog tongues & catlike whispers

flickering like the stoplights

in robotic whirls of synapse and the

Leviathans eye of jeweled candy,

stony seeds of the Godlessness of God,

foaming in the mouth upon the Beach of some Exotic Ocean

where the face of mannequins is a Hamlet,

erupting in whitecapped crowds screaming confessions of Ecstasy

on the Sea of the Non Local Shngri La

The audience roars in the breakfast of the atrium;

Grasshoppers slip fingertips into Slot Machines in the Pentagon

& the Television is a Tornado of light Starved trapezoids

daydreams of the Spanish Supermodels

boil into Gypsy fingerprints

every loop, every whorl, alive with prayer

of the Infinitely Sensitive flesh of Heaven,

whispering God's name until the Mirror in the Sunlight Breaks,

the faceless face escapes and

the Round Table Moves around;

WOOSH. The Fairies evolve, Gypsy Fireflies, Christian Locusts,

Hindy Ladybugs, Crickets of the Eternal Haiku

And the Lost Alphabet descends,

every word

Ending Beginning in the Gravity of thought,

the curve of the Old World demonized

and haunted by the apparitions of Muscovite vagabonds,

footsteps

spinning wild in the Gamma rays of the endless

broadcast of Life on Channel Zero.

Thanks for Sharing.

That night, in Tunguska:

the Explosion was an envelope of some Copenhagen Jazz--

Jazz of Tesla, lurking in the Womb,

the event horizon of the Non Local

Manhattan coming to life like a clock colored UFO;

doubling Wacko Blacko Summa Time Dead Head Ned's endless

eyeless vision

of eternity

into a

Tribe of Rubik's cubes and Priests of the

Invisible Automation,

that dream cycle that moves down the street

sweeping troubadours of Light

into the Ungodly Carnivals of the Clockface Carouselambra;

changing the hour,

every hour;

Time like Time when the Blakeness of the Baker's face

swells with the fiery tendrils of

the Century of Quetzlcoatl,

every skin cell singed

by the slow caress of heaven in

trillions of living rooms

melting on the nerve endings of

non linear skeletons / & the eyes of alien engel queens

living rooms ripe, littered with lingerie of Genesis ---

Orphans Howling Blue Notes of the Violence soaked Suburbs,

bathing their

demons in retrograde funerals

moving like a Circus of Voids into the Unknown Universe.

Cartoons flame out, igniting like the diaries of Hieronymous Bosch

The Universe? Is it a really just an endless crime scene?

***

Really? Did you really just say that???

The Fury of Fire Fairies: of The Lost Bard,

they sing: Balanced in the Comedy of Continuum.

Oppenheimer

escorted by the Knights Templar into

the stained glass windows of St. Patrick's cathedral.

***

The Glass vibrates like Joan of Arc's hymen

in the thermonuclear dawn.

the engines whisper in the morning

One by one, the Clerks ssemble their daydreams --

from Istanbul, to Inconstantinople,

the Variables are blushing

like a Grand Canyon full of blinking infants,

the Maternity Ward of the Infinite Infinity

spilling it's maps,

turning thirteen

dream scorched sailors (haunted, like the dying Columbus)

down into the ocean of the

Post Galilean night sky.

Newton Chirps in his funeral suit.

Amerigo,

a star shaped woman /

and her Catalonian Prophet slipping

like thieves into the eyelids

of a sunbeam.

aeolian aria, in area 51.

The Details are in the Disbelief.

Earth tilts,

lifting the Skirts of the Carnival, winged beings

turning on

the spiritual axis of Light,

the animal magnetism of

Utopia, scented in the secret promise of death

upon the constellation, aldebaraan ---

the King of the Forgotten throws an antelope into a lion's mouth,

opening the nest of doors in a Bacchanalian fugue,

opening and closing the doorways

like the Question of the Sphinx

suspended in the Louvre of the Elephantine eyelids,

suspended

with motes & the insanity of dust.

Glowing. a Golden point, of slowness.

Sending itself into the Room

where nothing ever happens

Black holes dance

the Grandfathers of the Apocalyptic Pop Calypso.

Tango.

Watusi.

Christ's admonition to the Gnostics: Twist & Shout

Hierarchies of control /

break down.

Convenience Store lights twinkle,

Cities

of the spasms of punctuated equilibrium.

a boot and a gun /

smashing into a face forever

The sky is a discotheque of disintegration

lost creations

Eternl fascists /

foaming eerily/ plastic flamingoes turning wild on wings of methylethylketone,

gambols of

psychedelic circus tents full of curious proteins

g asping for breath in the Las Vegas dawn,

The Machine assembles itself

In the audience

the Clowns claw Clowns of

Law and Love & Light;

worldlesss triangles bifurcating into the cages of werewolf geometry.

The sweeping curl of God's vanity hovers in the

essence of mystery,

eyes like eyes beyond eyes outside of eyes,

shadows shaped

like windows on a sidewalk glowing in the

moonlit woosh of the Manhattan sleeping

in the silent streams of insanity,

nine Stars eloping into endless Questions

bathing like Greek poets / inside the human tongue.

***

It has never been like this before.

Her mouth is a mirror image of a noun;

a verbs without beginning or end;

The language of the Other Side of the Universe races out of her tongue

into pools of blue hot wisdom

sprinkled on the Bedroom floor...

A tribe of bedouin nomads crosses into the desert of her flesh, hunting

cherubim & dragons of consciousness,

while the City of God lurks in the purple swells of

her ever expanding bellybutton.

She has become the cosmological rage of Greek Poets,

balancing Empires of Doubt

in the nerve clusters of a shapeshifting Minerva.

Imaginary numbers bathe in the winged corpses of her daydreams.

She escapes into your eyes

wave after wave,

her Goddess' womb tattooed with flames

like the ink of ghastly Empyrean bonfires.

An unending crest of complex equations anoints itself in the fire of her desperate, sex fueled desire to create.

Anything.

Just breed.

Over and over, clouds full of fish eyes mount her swollen flesh

with flames of the Vegetable Kingdom's eternal desire to be human.

Three variables of the divine hallucination surrender their souls as spies,

chasing the face of God into the sewers.

The prison turns calm, as broken teacups begin to hover above the Seattle skyline.

From the top of the sky,

ten trillion trillion

electrons of communion wine rain down.

***

(artwork by Remedios Varo)

***

Center Stage in an Improbability Field;

on a dream lit vortice quavering in a series of palindromic pulses ---

her own heart slips like a weathered neologism into the

mysterious veil petaled bells

of flame feathered fairy tales of a

Troupe of Saturnalian Tarantulas

twisting in a twilit tocking,

ticking, talking, turn into the

tangled angles of enlightenment of

the Temple of the Empty Tortoise Electron Shell

hidden deep inside the Wishing Well amongst the Monks

of the Totally Unknowable Thunder - Themed Trapezia

of the Twelfth of Midnight's Timeless Untold Tome of Time.

Sexual fables of crimson mouthed pomengranites brew

in the tear soaked masks of troglodytes,

churning wildly in the pores of her love's opening eye.

Wild blackberries plumb her throat for rare silence.

exotic fevers ferment in the tear soake pillows of the Apostles.

The Messiah is crucified in the lagoon of her silence.

Always, from the void, the swan songs of the Magi suspend in whirls of clouds of absinthe,

lighting each step with delta wave fog of Unicorn souls and dandelions.

Each magistrate --- eyes lit by the darkness of God, is

driven by fate into the maps of freckled

sorcerers trapped in what remains of the real world.

on the edge of the city, twelve lost Chromosomes explode in the nested emptiness of

a city built in ballerina hearts.

the Temple walls revolt. Fringes of the solitary rainbow skirt the halos of Mt. Everest.

Each insurrection of shadow and context begin dying in spasms of incoherence.

The cathedral- prison changes it's atomic structure in response to the falling of an amethyst idol.

Doppelganger choirs shine in the immaculate voices of the Grail.

Chalices of their mouths open into the summer street. She arrives in the Chariot of leafy green mysteries, atom by atom by atom;

painting forests of binary code into a world of suspended animation, each question howlingnocturnal dirges of hisses cascading across a leopard's tongue.

Godel's theorem spins in silken prayers through the spider face of an aztec virgin.

The Shaman's fingerprint traps itself in the eyelashes of the crocodiles daydream.

She bleeds symbol-lions. The poet of her soul makes love to God's name in elephant ears bursting from the edge of an isolated quark.

Her belly bursts with the heartache of the American street.

Eyes of children wink in hot shrieks of knotted fibonacci.

It was as if She has given birth to her own mother. Her belly is swollen with puddles of antique moonlight, each photon swimming in the Sea of Galilee, drunk on apparitions of Christ.

In her abdomen, the Universe crawls with the semen of memory drunk prophets; axioms of lust curl through Einstein's frontal cortex into the ruby vortex of her rubbery mouth.

Twelve vagabonds converge on the tastebuds of the God that no longer non - Exists.

***

In the Atomic structure of Midnight's mirrored quell, self portraits of the Mystery recombine

in the Enchanted Whirling

of an omniscient VERB that is eloping into moebus loops of perpetual transubstantiation

through the daydreams of a passing

Bodhisattva,

illuminating the fingertips of heaven with the twinkling sensitivity of the Menorah

that sleeps in the summer sky,

turning choirs of the angelic hosts out of their own geometrical phasing,

into the parabolic arcs

of clouds the color of the first eyelids of the Garden of Eden- and spinning, clocklike,

open hearted --- her flesh erupts in thralls and tantrums of Light in

the vortices of a honey flavored hallucination

and comes to rest in a collection of human freckles just between

the last Quark of Edgar Allen Poe's

eyelids and the question marks whirring deep inside the unborn faces of the knowably unknown Universe.

From somewhere inside this Improbability Field

--- the Black Swan spins a wild wing of God's favorite darkness around a chalice of tears;

ten million eyelids fluttering in the Bride's ego at the moment of transcendental ecstasy.

At the Still Point, She finds her Mother's face in the photograph of Hiroshima:

Without warning, the wedding cake explodes;

the Priests's tongue collides with a satellite at the edge of the Sky.

Her eyes sweep through the wet ink of history, like a broken heart pulsing on the rainforest floor.

Imaginary Beings collect there. Where? Where? Over there, She asks, never knowing.

The probabilities fall and rise like curtains of rain, every mysterious face

pooling in unresolvable wounds.

Are they are waiting to be born?

Have they lived just to die?

If dying, will they ever be set free?

Imperfect Questions, unfinished answers.

The candlelight flickers. Her secret name races across the Sky.

And in the heavy sweet sickness of this Otherworldly pregnancy ---

the atoms -- oxygen, nitrogen --- strange perfumes of the placenta of God --- slipstreams of the primitive Haunt;

elemental fevers whirling in the Carouselambra of the Infinitely Improbable ---

until the universe slips deeper into itself,

bringing the Human ego into a frothy whitecap of madness in spiritual crescendoes,

until suddenly:

the woman with nine ovaries sprouts an embryo the shape of an icosahedron.

The mouth of the icosahedron opens into a Stargate.

A single stream of syllables slips down through the embryos' throat, igniting the

Universal womb with the promise of an unforgettable future, the fiery cascade of Light, burning in the secret language of cellular division.

One hears the footsteps of Manhattan echoing in the heartbeats of the living.

Inexplicably, the embryo

(Godlike, humanlike, Otherworldly? --- born; yet unfinished, like a Clock unwinding in the mouth of a desert prophet?)

slips into a perfect anonymity

and,

as if the Forest itself had disguised the universe as the Open Mouth of a Dryad, and the

City begins to echolocate, heartbeat by heart beat the delta wave oscillations of a million dream

slipping into the cavernous pause of the Non Local loom.

In the middle of the night, as the City inside the Eyelid of God shimmers into non local consciousness ---

at a single moment, the heartbeats of the City suddenly synchronize.

A once unthinkable cascade of human nightmares ignites in the arboreal fringes of the

vacuous continuum of God's unfathomable presence by absence of presence.

Crickets chirp hallelujah, hallelujah, hahahahaha, hahahaha, halleluja, haaaaaaaaa, haaaaaaaa.

***

On the tequila, lime and salt flavored rim of the volcano Popocatepetl,

a tribe of scarecrows is rehearsing Act Nine, Scene 2178 of the Made for Television Post Modern, Post Pop Non Stop Apocalypse.

Line by line, the scarecrows chant verses of psychotic Aztec volcano poetry into the mouth of Popocatepetl, every syllable traversing the churning bowels of the Underworld until, even in normally normal places like Sheffield, England --- strange crop circles appear, emulating the Tattoos on the Scarecrow's cheekbones.

The Volcano's open mouth is grinning like Salvador Dali performing necrophiliac ventriloquism from ten days asleep in his funeral casket.

Gurgling odes of nightshade. Lisping belches of naked troglodytes.

Hissing every ultrasonic blue note of the local Non Local Spacetime Underground ---

Orphic Bathos, singing the chthonic Lover's love story while drumming new life into the heart of the ferns boiling in the antiparticle rainforest very very far down below.

Where not even the God particle can go.

It is the languor of extra terrestriality; the dark sensation of being everywhere at once.

Witnessing your own eyes fly down streets haunted by a trillion severed ears --- strange limbs whirling on the skylines like soldier spines ---

strange kidneys moving through forests of disembodied

legs that march on the soil twisting with the imaginary words hidden in your fingerprints.

You have suddenly become semi - omniscient. a thundercloud, lost in the raindrop, evaporating in convective trebles of lightning that seeks its own face in the earthly soil..

Your eyes begin seeing themselves from the outside in and inside out again.

You're nowhere, yet: everywhere, simultaneously. Strangely aware

of the heartache of all those bodies decomposing in the winter soil.

It is the chaos magic / the religion of action alone ---

endless Sephiroth fluttering cell to cell, like an otherworldly acrobat surrendering to the zero gravity of life lost inside the human nervous system.

Her Soul is Europe; her Asian brain, her African heart; her American face --- a Godless Gondwanaland bathing in the bioluminescent Laughter of Genesis, the joke that never ended.

America's surface cracks open; Geopolitical man spilling in the faces of the poor people pouring out from the depths of Her un-frozen heart.

The rich people drive by singing odes lip synching karaoke machines.

Every face becomes raw, naked --- like musical instruments glimpsed in the smoky bar rooms where,

in a single instant, nobody is certain of anything that is going on any longer.

The entire bar room dissolves into a series of patternless patterns, blue notes, golden refrains, invisible choruses of negative entropy.

Eyes like doleful spanish guitars. Mouthy Oboes.

Saxophone tongued cherubim. Violins like street urchins of Limbo.

From inside this Opticall Illusion of Inhuman Lies;

footsteps of glass blown fairies ignites secret runes carved in post-- carbon foreshadowing on the Liar tongue.

Machines whirring in binary code of a post - human political party.

They will say: We tried.

But, until that moment: creation oozes from the synchronistic pores of her electrode spiked skin.

Micromachined gazelles leap through her blood stream into the Serengeti of her bottomless brain.

Time does not stop at the edge of those Atoms.

This time, while the bifurcating histories split the hairs of the Mannequin ---

the Desert Sphinx begins to glow with subatomic kundalini in the subspace between the field of consciousness and the void.

Ten billion dandelions could not be wrong.

Electromagnetic frequencies trip the switches of the Sea Lion's Heart.

In this feverish plunge through the wanton disregard for Selflessness that is their Secret love story, which will never end, never begin, doesn't even exist:

A meteor of fuzzy logic shoots like the Laughter of Zeus through the white pages of the Jungle;

the inevitable tragedy becomes inevitable.

in the rainforest, the sky canopy begins to sizzle in alchemical ghosts.

Thunderbolts cascade through their jewel flavored abdomens. Their eyes glow in serpentine vowels, spilling venom and ink into the wisdom of the book of Genesis,

the ancient Scribe disappears, it's footsteps mirrored in the Vanishing Point of the Immaculate Conception.

***

On whirlwinds of the Unborn child's imagination,

the ecosystem of it's Mother's Soul turns in cycles of strange pauses,

elemental fevers, the laughter of light bearing lycanthropes.

The floor of heaven; the ceiling of Hell. Stairwells racing with

creatures on the edge of their own skin.

A series of fish eyed men in trenchcoats, turning the dials on machines made of broken televisions.

An old man, eating a hat.

They dwell on the edge of the Human eye;

like

skeletons

dancing under the mirrored ball,

every cheekbone

burning with Philosopher tears

Zillions of zephyrs in syzgy of scintilla racing through the Temple of The Palindromic Placenta in a pandemonium of promethean paradox!

From ten trillion light years away, her ghost is a Mozart, singing the Zauber Flote, animandosi, to a dandelion forged by the streetlights of Aldebaraan.

Lightning lifts the sheets from the bed of the two two headed jaguars who

have buried their childlike faces in fields of yellowy mandrake of her

Night of Life beyond Life beyond Compare.

The scent of the mandrake billows in florid nerve endings from underneath the Witches' evening gown.

She laughs.

Echoes churn in the diamond sutra of the Clitoris at the End of Time.

On the edge of the Rainforest, her twelve white beards, glowing like the

beak - tongues of trumpeter swans ---

are lost in the neural honeycomb of dead

men's tears, boiling pitch of Improbably Lights into connectionist hues of unknown colors

distilled from the unsolid ground in orgasms of the final dreamtime, every photon chasing

itself into the honey - hive of God's paradox shaped heart

swimming into the inner space of the deep green Summertime Sky.

Cornflowers, the fingertips pause on the edge of Eve's fleshy anvil;

the Garden of Eden

grows drunk with tiny inhuman feet that move in mechanical pitter patter

towards the point of Heaven's No Return Return,

until the wicked skin of the Jaguars begins to spit strange fires that

tremble with the power of seven billion suggestions.

The Mozart behind the Moon, leaps through fiery corpuscles of the magicians poetry into the infernal incantations of

the Elephantine bridegroom.

Her heart bustles in sidewalks of DNA composed by a Priests'

wicked glossolalia.

From the Tortoises of Galapagos to the aisles of the first

Wal Mart in Utopia;

Sequences of energy sprout like polka dots on a breakfast table.

Chameleons feed heart of the Noble Savage into the Circus Lion's mouth,

using only the language of the Helenic Wars --- one thousand

ships, mirrored sails boiling in the deadness of the Sailor's

tongue like altocumulus falling into the sea;

every black seam of insanity burning it's way into the civilization in wild

unforgivable hues of incomprehensible negativitu.

And in this spirit darkened trance of organ and nerve,

flesh blushing in triangles and exotic perfumes, pheremones trickling

through the pores of turtle prayers on their

way through cavernous limbos---

the last memory of humanity hovers in perpetual gedanken, uncontrollably

changing on permutations of impermanent impermanence best remembered as

evolutionary revolutions.

And in this magic jungle, as time expands in the leopard spots

shapeshifting in the glitter drunk sky, a prismatic array of magical

species burn themselves into the love poems of God,

every single one singing a thousand names the wind has never been able hear

itself thinking.

She dwells in the Furnace of Untranslatable Tears.

***

a green being, lifting it's heart into the sun with golden tendrils of snakeskin

tripping through the peyote smile

of mermaid's scales into yellow fingered ferns,

while the God of the Leviathan opens it's eyes into it's mother's mouth.

In the subterranean light,

the pollen of her Soul explodes in bombs of ultraviolet charisma,

bleeding the endless Utopian psychosis from under the newborn City's shapeshifting spine

The flood fevered stamens of Hell blush like the audience hypnotized by Socrates suicide in the Athenian daylight.

a trillion light years away:

A blue eyed woman bathes her soul in the negative image of the rainbow,

as her life is being deconstructed by Magicians of the Open Heart.

She pivots on a blind eye toward a sky infected with laser beam souled

sparrows.

The sparrows move like Charlie Chaplin's shadow; swarming in pools

of liquid energies.

This is the Equinox of Pandemonium; a place of total certainty;

where the night watchman drifts through

a vapor of prostitute's pheremones,

burying his ghost in the light of the chlorine colored sky as

his spirit froths over in a ballet of asymmetrical parallax.

Her mother's heart ascends in vocal fire ,

shooting into the star spangled night, like Dolphins bathed in a

Rosicrucian thrum

as the Queen's mouth becomes a candelabra of lust and

The angels in the courtyard multiply in

gambits of antedeluvian fibonacci,

across a chess board haunted by nine million

Madmen whose faces are perfectly identical.

The Salvation Machine comes to life;

it's calculations are instantaneous and eternally irreversible.

Everyone moves in perfect rhythm, as if choreographed by the Angels.

The bodies of the Being outside of G-d

circle the sky in halos and UFO's of empty skin.

The summertime sky echoes in clouds that charge the night with

epitaphs of poetry that make sense only to the

Unborn Child sleeping like Godot deep in the catacombs of your eyes.

Every moment is weirder than the next.

The mothership arrives, begins to ascends into the sky

leaping through the pores of human skin.

A doctor walks in to the Jungle.

His eyes are cathedrals churning with atheist prayers of Orchids engaged in the Conspiracy of Whirlwinds.

***

spiraling out of the Fibonacci sequence---

a gestalt of integers in gedanken

sleeping in the green jewels

of her dirt drunk flesh

erupts into an electromagnetic ribbon of the Christ's

chakra cycle as the universe churns in perpetual motion into

the Crucifixion of a

gamma ray of deja vu billowing in the prayer shawl of the Ionosphere.

Far down below, on the rainforest floor, a series of communion wafers murmurs the Lost Name, every syllable suspended in the negative entropy of mysterious tongues unfurled in flags of unfinished silence.

Midnight after midnight, minuets of stigmata trip through the flesh of the holy madmen, who find themselves balancing the equations of Heaven and Hell in the lost space between Dusk and Dawn.

With each intricate calculation, the algebra of angels sends

their souls soaring straight into the darkness that is boiling up from deep inside every common fruit.

From her Chauffered casket, she balances Chopin's mazurka number 9 in the nerve clusters of MC Escher's fingertips.

Her nostrils flare. A wild eyed Prophet elopes into the galactic starlight coded in the maelstrom of her shapeshifting tattoos.

Locusts swarm in the fiery desert of her Imagination.

In the moment of the orgasmic conjuration of Love, Picasso runs his fingernails down the chalkboard of her neck.

Guernica bursts into rapid fire eyelessness.

God found God bombing God's heart with Nihilistic Vowels in the heat field of a dying bulls eye.

The black A, the Omniscient O of an Alphabetic Green U. of the Universe turning into the Yellowy I of Incomplete Nothingness, a trillion Blue Ee's marching into Shangri La.

She comes to life like a ray of light, quivering in a spasm of ruby tigers.

Spiritual synesthesia! At the end of a long standing dirge, myth resonates with the truest lies of an unfinished God on the edge of it's own beginning.

Inside the skull, inside the brain, inside the occipital cortex; inside a neuron, inside a protein, an amino acid is singing Aria 51.

A moment of desire unleashes Prometheus from inside the DNA of her neurons. Probability fires, blessed by the fool's laughter---

swing through the sky on garlands of chameleon eyelids.

Scarlet hues, turquoise allegories, crimson haiku.

Her fingers slip into the dead man's heart, retrieving yellow flowers of broken light from deep inside the cloudlike curtains of Her memory.

***

A trillion variables sweep through the eyes of the dead rock stars

in whirlwinds of Phrygian logos,

whisking monsoons of Hindu gossip across the Summit of Mount Everest,

where the snowflake is a discotheque of Darkness.

The shadow of God slips through her her central nervous system as it escapes the clutches of a nest of pinecones.

The mountaintop erupts in astronaut's footprints.

Fibonacci sequence of the Kundalini Serpent begins to howl, in the nocturnal dirges of the black widow of Heaven's Saintly psychosis.

Her feet slip into the mercurial clouds of cirrus wind trembling with aeons of grasshopper poetry.

Jazz escapes from the Priests' pet raindrop.

The night turns translucent, as Prophets of the Real World spiral through the synaptic sephiroth and temple - chalices of Unbearable Solitude.

The veins on the Goddess' arms sparkle with serpentine seams of light hidden deep inside the Kingdom of White Noise, every corpuscle charged with the Impossible Fear of Being Born.

Pink flamingos lay their eggs in dead men's ears.

Trapped in this war between geometric fantasies, the Cameras of the Last Movie peer through human skin

as the omniscient God resurrects into another endless rediscovering of it's own infinite being.

Strange colors without any known names circle the eyes of the Verb Magician in rhythms unfamiliar to all.

the Priests of Greek Delirium spread vegetable fires in the eyes of the Sybils of Eleusis.

Deeper still, in a regression of nine dimension ecstasies,

the Moment of Infinite Peril stirs with the birth pangs of the Hierarchy of Mothers.

Child by child, eyes of every new born ocean open into the Starlit chambers of the Angelical Host, every element of the Universe whirring into fantasias of the Life beyond Life of the Life that Lives

***

within the looms of constellating phosphorescence ---

the promethean metaphor,

Andromeda and Christ Pantocrator --

She follows Mystery into the Temple of the Last Engine,

until there is a Moment ---

She unwinds. Her voice, light infused wing of wind ---

the white wine of silence,

tripping seahorses across the dolphin's eye,

waves fluttering upon the crushed ocean shore of unfinished Verbs

that tempts the language of language into a cartwheeling colour,

coral urchins coiled inside the Life wish of Voids,

crashing of the waves of the Infernal King

breeds this Nounless Now of the Eternal Return,

an infinite number of Lives and luminescent lemniscates

that whirl the worlds,

Celestial paeans of thunder making magic;

Ourobouros & Anemone,

One by one --- the stars elucidating photons upon

the Wheels of the Magi;

circles of the cellular nuclei of Lions, Ezekiel's light infused eyelids,

winged valentines of star faced antelopes and unsolved rubiks' cubes,

broken toys like Sailors faces, the Supercomputing Rainforest,

memories of Hamlet whirling in sand dunes

spiked with mermaid whiskers,

subatomic shadows of the Apostolic shadow

rolling over and over in orgasm curve of unfinishing of Space and time.

Combine, recombine.

On the upside down world, a ladybug on the surface of the lake

She has chosen to become: the Astronaut of Emptiness,

in the Sea of Tranquility she finds an isolated throne,

Moment by moment, her fingertips roll,

like angels falling in the summertime rain,

the corpse crowned by Love in the Messianic hallows where

ghosts describe their love affair

with the Simulacrum of Time.

In every broken computer cell

there grows the stochastic imagination.

She is burning. Her consciousness is a series of inaudible clicks,

wires stretched between two Infinite Polarities .

Ourobouros howls in her bone, like a highway

On the tight rope of time.

Her muscles glow, brooding nightshade of

Kites

and the triumphant sight of Russian violins,

dancing kalinka in her unfrozen legs

white strings of the wine of wind

flocking into snowflakes of her sexual metaphor.

Over strawberry faced moons; into the eyes of sleeping sturgeons --

a world of deep sea fish,

laughing rhythms of the anemone into the preternatural Shining

of Love's parabolic whirl

Sway. the Gentle light of the Millenium; on the Mountain of

the Here and Now,

She turns around the One of Ones

Her eyes are floodlit nurseries,

a maternity ward of phantasmagoric children,

incomprehensible to all but the Angelic Host dancing

in the Sacred _______.

One by one her tears trip into the Palace Cage,

where spin the Gravity of Ballerinas.

They twirl, bonfire up the thundercloud --

up through the brick walls, down into the gulley and the Leviathan's

gilded corpse of jeweled meat

This ancient city, those

Towers of the Broken Glass --- echo in real time with

ten trillion Diamond Sutras,

it's heart is radioactive

as Oppenheimer's tongue,

and day by day, the Garden of Stars

boils in a thermonuclear hush,

the wine of the wind,

where a white shroud of caterpillars

is seeking the Nun's face at Twilight.

Purple canyons full of blood swept bats billow in the hot wind.

She remembers no memory; only Spiritual fission;

her soul divides by zero in the Algebra of the Alhambra Hotel,

and in the Night of the Lost Seattle,

There are strange men --- burying human hearts

in the amphitheatre of Sorrow --- three o'clock in the morning.

The moon is a witches tit. Milk and lies, the unholy weather

spinning in the powers of Time that got them where

there's no becoming.

A tribe of cadillacs roams through the City.

It is being driven by Pan, and Circe --- they have lifted the veil

from the doorway of the Unborn Hive.

The ascent into the future in the Uterus of God

has begun.

Microwave symphonies --- codex of wires,

holy electrodes,

buildings full of skin burnt graffiti of orphaned mystics ---

sway, tremble --- charging dissonant Interference patterns into the

otherworldly glow of the anarchist's extopia.

At night: first a photon, then the Sun; the Galaxy of God, the Language of Nineveh,

a multiverse of Unfinished Beings arrives; molecular clockworks of worlds within

worlds within worlds, spinning and singing, singing

the bodily flesh with exotic dirges of the

recombinatorial majesty of Heaven's spiritual abacus,

where --- in an infinity of mirrored mirrors, rainbows like Newton's

children

break out from the skin, sweeping the candlelight into pools of proteins as the wounded flesh of God

exhales it's own unforgettable name.

Shangri La, the Lady sang. A wild thing, hanging from the ceiling.

The orchid glances at her bullet wound.

The Sun dial fucks a heron.

Wild neurons exchange theoretical wedding vows with

an imaginary constellation bathed in translucent embryos of the Emperor's ego.

The bathwater becomes crimson, strange ghosts swimming in crystalline candelabras of transhuman logic.

The room sings.

Her eyes are knit and stitched in heavenly atomic apostasies through the eyes of death defying buddhas.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, drifting into the nitrogen swell of a Greek heat,

begins to whisper the first minuet of his Mother's sweetest sweet nothings.

Olympian Angels --- the Luciferian Courtyard --- grow,

every tendril of flesh coming unburied in the sleeping

skin of newborn beings,

opening with the empty eyes of a dreaming dreamer into the

world of concrete buildings and human faces, where Kings tumble down sidewalks

billowing in carbon monoxide ghosts, chased by the Sorcerers of the Kalashnikov Night.

Suddenly, the moment the clock begins to spin; the events inside his brain

immediately correspond with the events of the world around him.

Time becomes that which it is not; Space collapses in a series

of fevers punctuated by the heat death of the First Night without Warning.

***

Sirens in city. a nightmare in the key of vampire laughter.

everywhere one goes, the lightning strikes;

the eyelid spontaneously combusts

Staccato Gunfire; it sounds like Chopin

while a woman's scream flickers on the tongue of the television,

it's like being french kissed by a Cobra

You will now go home to write.

turn the Ink of the dream

into a bloody stain of memory.

*

The city skyline juts in jigsaw puzzles and dinosaur jawbones;

a slow moving smoke, haze of blowtorches burning

in broken symmetry,

until the sky is full of UFO's, the pearl necklaces of Eden,

careening to vaguely audible psychedelic applause

and in the clouds --- which are no longer clouds, but have been replaced by

strange salts imported from Charlie Manson's cerebellum

otherworldly portraits of otherworldly

beings shapeshifte, ballerinas trapped gasoline rainbows

the demon colored sky

writhing like Edgar Allen Poe's eyeballs in broken glass,

where silvery steel Frankensteins clutch aluminum foil roses,

from the rooftops of glass skyscrapers

signals of a million forgotten species

rise like daydreams of the Trillionth Dawn,

every moment the atomic structure of every non living being, secretly

wooshing with the thinly disguised life wishes

of the Djinn.

Random numbers leap from roof to roof, fueled by transcendental equations,

every tick of the clock exploding with

Jazz, running like salmon against the ecosystems of Death.

until Neutrons of the woman's eggshell colored skin begin to chant themselves

into an open wound of wounds that has no beginning or end.

Sapphires run wild through the city.

but still:

the audience assassinates Hamlet the moment he steps onto the stage.

Something has gone wrong. Ophelia pouts swollen lips into a broken mirror.

Tides of mystery crash through incomprehensible patterns of ancient

bardic consciousness,

leaving footprints rich with sadomasochistic riddles in a field drunk with

the daydreams of dew bathed acorns.

Christ's body is lowered from a Mimosa tree

A trillion women exhale a single unreal tear.

The tear is Hot and moist, like the walls of the Parthenon.

Her tongue explodes into

a rainforest of carnivorous words being devoured by cannibal sentences.

Her mother's womb becomes the casket of Michaelangelo;

from ten centuries away, he carves his name into her Ovaries.

Birth by birth, the throat of the Goddess

swarms with canticles of bumblebee poetry.

This is the lost scene of permanent

Salvation; the nerve cells of ten trillion

trillion living beings flutter with God's heartache,

spinning into

hypnogagic reverie.

Algebraic fire burns her brain into tragic wastelands of empathy.

Her body explodes in antiparticles, like laughter at the funeral of God.

Imaginary breaths leap from heart to heart.

The sorrow of the moonless sky. A white fish bathed in green fire.

Madness of infinite God. Three parallel lines licking her earlobes

in the bedroom made of seashells.

THe streetlam flickers; she finds her flesh wrapped in a prayer shawl

of raw meat.

It is not a wound. It is the doorway into the madness of the Infinite God.

A billion light years worth of Max Planck's memories washes on the ocean

shore next to 5th Avenue.

Manhattan is the Leviathan's mouth. Death becomes the turning point.

The party begins the moment the Palace self assembles around a tibetan

hummingbird's beak.

Pink noise; center stage, a clown faced girl is dancing the Shakespearean

tango. Her heart pulses in brownian motion.

Every whisper is an echo of Socrates death gasp; the sky is painted in

tones of scarecrows lost in perfect chiaruscuro,

the feathered loops of fog that worships itself in the machine forged

mantra of the juxtaposition of Eternity.

***

the human face ... is a question that cannot be answered,

but by the Curiosity of the Uncreated Creator

that strange power of the Unknown Unknowns

we live in temples like the fingertips of flame

tripping nimbly into thresholds of the unfinished 'whatever it is'

a blue sky drinking a blue ocean exhaling a blue sky --

ten trillion impossible questions in infinite regress,

the face of God boiling in

the probability field of the summertime Soil,

where the Angels play dice with Spider's eyes.

There are moments of extremely wise stupor.

In that still air,

when the waking world dissolves into the

geometry of the night,

musculature curving in the uncalculated motion

of freedom

and one finds broken seashells

reassembling in the mirror.

every Question is a stranger's face,

converging in the evolution of hypothesis

at the rate of ten undiscovered

Universes per moment.

Truth: carouselambra caravanserai?

Truth: a broken machine howling the

Tetragammatron at the End of Time?

Truth: your smile, igniting the City of the Anarchist Quarks.

Where we're waltzing like two hurricanes across hot

coals in the vacant lot between the Sistine Chapel and the nearest Autozone.

At midnight, you realize it is 3:AM;

The Knights Templar invade your Kitchen.

Outside your window, the

Troupe of Disembodied Brain Fairies are dancing in the street.

A strange woman, her eyes like japanese video games --- her skin a green temple of

lichens and alien god-spores, strolls down the Suburban street.

She is everywhere and no-body all at once. Her eyes move from mouth

to mouth like tomatos during the Vampire apocalypse.

She is writing songs with her footprints.

Every lyric sings of the shadowy essence of Life in the Land of Unopened Umbrellas.

the universe does a strip tease, Sunrise

like a Vegas Casino trapped in an event

horizon the flavor of subatomic ice cream.

A tear shaped dolphin swims through the shopping mall.

Inside your eye, the dolphin's face is sucking the blueness from

a lost gamma ray.

The ocean licks itself; the bonfire grows a shadow cat ---

the tribe grows drunk on nonsense poems.

Somewhere, Lewis Carroll is laughing. The Jabberwock has him trapped

inside a Jabberwock poem. The entire scene is like a starlit soaked

newborn, naked as the sacredheart of the most ancient Madonna,

leaping from into

thundercloud to thundercloud in the slow motion of

roses coming unburied in the delight of G-d.

Twelve ordinary people, who are pretending to be absolute strangers, have

assembled in the tangled gazebo of the Vine of the Preternaturally Dead.

A dream of red wine wraps itself around a woman's wrist.

Ten puppet hearted vagabonds dance into the Bible, receiving the wounds of

Christ in a scene left out of Genesis, where the Serpent begins quoting

French symbolist poetry until the Garden of Eden is balanced between the

colors blue and yellow again.

Nine cloudlike curtains billow like a virgin's heartache.

The stage is set with a troupe of Dream Thieves,

speaking th magic cant of Divine Actors, their silver tongues spinning the

legends of tarot cards in self replicating whispers of gypsies.

***

It is midnight. The moon breaks like an egg upon the blackbirds beak,

Apollinaire steps into the Laws of God.

The World of the Unborn Machine

evolves through the bacteria under his fingernails.

A trill of tachyons bathing in mirror neurons

turns curls of the light into fractalline ecosystems of dandelion wine

that floats on the violin shaped tongue of this Sufi magician,

whose chromosomes recombine in the Key of a ventriloquist quasar.

The POET: APOLLINAIRE

disappears into the Mirage of Unanswered Prayers,

leaving his own corpse to dissolve

like sugar on the unfinished smile of an Anonymous Self.

The secret flame of this Starface --- is the

curved elopement of the Hieronymous albedo; the Illuminated

lunacy of the Moonlit woosh, a Shining Path igniting the filaments of

the scarlet Garden, one verb cross pollinating one verb,

becoming the Sacred Noun, Outside of Ordinary Time.

From the Zenith of the Syzygy;

The Cat faced child is lost in the enchanted Anemone

and lifts the eyelids of the Queen of the Wilderness Heaven;

she turns, into herself ---

obsessed with the mystery play of Neptune's Cloud gypsies

and --- is brandishing

the permutations of the Name, flickering hisses and rolling moans off

tongues of newborn aliens, until one by one,

their souls flutter across the earth on angelical

feathers of newborn beings,

stirred into the sacrifice of leaving the negative infinity by the

Lure of Life inside APOLLINAIRE'S ever evolving

nativity scene.

Far down, through a series of well timed vaginas,

the dream life of wild honey

dissolves into a Seance

on the edge of the watering hole ripe with blue flamingoes

where her future insanities flow into the starlight

of blue eyed waterfalls and perfect elephantine lunatics,

chanting proverbs of cellular nuclei into the

ears of the Open Throated Silence.

She becomes a single note, whirling in the permutations,

dividing Zero by Zero in a composition of non linear

improbability waves.

And as She airmails her Mother's face into the Abyss of the Louvre,

the He that is a She that is Nobody at all,

wraps a white shawl across her sacred heart, until in a cascade of

harmonious surrender, the whole Universe quivers, trembles,

turns and exhales the

name of paradise towards the light - drunk dandelions of

the Maternity Wards of Aldebaraan.

From inside the flowering mouth of those winter minarets,

the Mosque of the human heart

burns in vivid embers of proteins falling in love,

murmuring the the name of Lucifer's lost Sparrow,

sweet nothings of spell bound bird bones rising up into

the skyline of a City full of lives

being written by the unknown deviltry of Spaceship Earth.

****

the geranium is weeping the silence of it's mother;

A lone star faces the Guillotine of Night,

the perfume of music thundering under the Priestess of the

Emptiness of skin.

At midnight, the executioner remembers his Mother's face.

One by one the flames of intuition create patterns of

inhuman eyes in a ballet of perfect blindness.

A protein sings the nonsense poetry of disembodied Shamans through the face of a knotted pinecone.

Twelve thousand pyramids explode on the Ocean floor.

The Pharoah of Atlantis sends love letters into the edge of Astronaut's eye.

The world is made naked again,

ten trillion lies of ten trillion living beings

circling an eardrum the shape of God's funeral casket.

On the summit of Mt. Everest, in the Cathedral of Unfinished Verbs,

the Old Man of the Mountain spins threads of lightning that descend

into the Village of her Infinite Being, whispering rumors of the

heat seeking integers of Shangri La.

***

She hovers on wingtips of the dragon fly buddha,

training the embryo of God in contemplation of the soul stamen.

a Memory Palace of Divine Hesitation,

burying the seeds of her unfinished

children in the graveyard between the Convenience Stores

where the

Seers see nothing except their own faces in the breaking glass the

miracle unfolding

Cell by cell,

as the Man Machine discovers

LOGOS structured in it's machine gun fire,

every page of every unwritten book

churning with negative entropy,

racing across the boundary thresholds of the Isolate Quark;

a taut haunt of hallowed hallucinations,

purchasing stories that begin:

Welcome to Synapse #667.

Where the flesh ignites with the flood, light curves on the tongue

and the songs of the caravanserai of Timbuktu,

carouselambras of Shangri La,

slip in fairy tale feasts into the Halls of

the Hotel Olympus, where the room service

feeds the Tourists locusts and wild honey

to prove:

nothing ever happens, except that strange Salvific turn

of the deserted heart,

blooming as the hair raises on the back of your neck

God by God by God becomes the Flower of Life

that begins without beginning or end, and the beginning of Time

down through a freckle, a cell, a protein, an amino acid, the DNA,

adenine, hydrogen, the electron, the quark --- until somewhere

Max Planck and Einstein divide Zero by Zero and get: ONE

completing the transubstantiation of MAYA into THOUGHT

that dissolves like sugar into

TS Eliot's fading smile.

***

Memories of the Two, swimming ultraviolet thunder,

leaving the nightmares of Jesuit Priests chasing

wild songbirds into the All Seeing Eye.

Under the auspicious curve of Lucifer's gaze

a zebra harvests the exhalations of star struck aphids,

smiling Sphinx to Sphinx in the Temple of

Impermanent Impermanence.

The strange attractor of ten trillion maternity wards

wooshes in a hurricane of Genomes and

an endless procession of patterns into patterns,

with the Kingdom of Heaven

revolving in the thermal rise

of a feathers spiraling up against the sidewalk and the sky into

the place where cotton candy discovers it's mother

lurking in the starlight of the Zoo

where the Conjurations of spiritual daredevils,

the Ibex and the Unicorn ---

dare themselves to fly into her tears

in triple time.

***

Eternity pauses on the edge of a thought stained face

The newborn star,

pausing to flood the world with it's light of it's first delusory oscillation

--- gasps in the key of D minor.

Footsteps of Columbus echo in the Uterus of her Face;

the rainforest inhales a thousand CC's of methylethylketone

a Shopping Mall is built on the bones of dying robots

and the Circus tent explodes

---

in the Lion Tamer's eye

infinity billows like Salvador Dali's mystical hymen.

a crocodile slides it's tongue into the rivery wallows of the silence

pulsing in the Vegetable Goddess' lipstick of heat seeking

chlorophyll

High above

the parallel lines

a skull is born

constellations of coincidence

self organize into a convergence point of furies and graces.

Her soul trips

through the geometry of fate

into the love songs of catfish

sleeping on a paper plate.

Manhattan trembles in the Void of Godel's incompleteness theorem.

The djinn, it's skin pulsing across rooftops with the fevered waltz of sexual mystery -- spins like a white lie through the circuitry of Leviathan.

This is the broken black wing of the haunted wedding cake trembling in the engine of God's tastebuds.

In the chanting electromagnetic wheels of her deepest non - being, Ophelia's mitochondria is rehearsing the Journey of Dante's eyelash from the first Discotheque of Nirvana into the cradle of ferns on Gondwanaland's fern breathing floors.

The sky scintillates with Lithium phantasmagoria and

the silent whitecaps of a nursery rhyme

***

She hovers on wingtips of the dragon fly buddha,

training the embryo of God in contemplation of the soul stamen.

a Memory Palace of Divine Hesitation,

burying the seeds of her unfinished

children in the graveyard between the Convenience Stores

where the

Seers see nothing except their own faces in the breaking glass the

miracle unfolding

Cell by cell,

as the Man Machine discovers

LOGOS structured in it's machine gun fire,

every page of every unwritten book

churning with negative entropy,

racing across the boundary thresholds of the Isolate Quark;

a taut haunt of hallowed hallucinations,

purchasing stories that begin:

Welcome to Synapse #667.

Where the flesh ignites with the flood, light curves on the tongue

and the songs of the caravanserai of Timbuktu,

carouselambras of Shangri La,

slip in fairy tale feasts into the Halls of

the Hotel Olympus, where the room service

feeds the Tourists locusts and wild honey

to prove:

nothing ever happens, except that strange Salvific turn

of the deserted heart,

blooming as the hair raises on the back of your neck

God by God by God becomes the Flower of Life

that begins without beginning or end, and the beginning of Time

down through a freckle, a cell, a protein, an amino acid, the DNA,

adenine, hydrogen, the electron, the quark --- until somewhere

Max Planck and Einstein divide Zero by Zero and get: ONE

completing the transubstantiation of MAYA into THOUGHT

that dissolves like sugar into

TS Eliot's fading smile.

***

Memories of the Two, swimming ultraviolet thunder,

leaving the nightmares of Jesuit Priests chasing

wild songbirds into the All Seeing Eye.

Under the auspicious curve of Lucifer's gaze

a zebra harvests the exhalations of star struck aphids,

smiling Sphinx to Sphinx in the Temple of

Impermanent Impermanence.

The strange attractor of ten trillion maternity wards

wooshes in a hurricane of Genomes and

an endless procession of patterns into patterns,

with the Kingdom of Heaven

revolving in the thermal rise

of a feathers spiraling up against the sidewalk and the sky into

the place where cotton candy discovers it's mother

lurking in the starlight of the Zoo

where the Conjurations of spiritual daredevils,

the Ibex and the Unicorn ---

dare themselves to fly into her tears

in triple time.

***

Eternity pauses on the edge of a thought stained face

The newborn star,

pausing to flood the world with it's light of it's first delusory oscillation

--- gasps in the key of D minor.

Footsteps of Columbus echo in the Uterus of her Face;

the rainforest inhales a thousand CC's of methylethylketone

a Shopping Mall is built on the bones of dying robots

and the Circus tent explodes

---

in the Lion Tamer's eye

infinity billows like Salvador Dali's mystical hymen.

a crocodile slides it's tongue into the rivery wallows of the silence

pulsing in the Vegetable Goddess' lipstick of heat seeking

chlorophyll

High above

the parallel lines

a skull is born

constellations of coincidence

self organize into a convergence point of furies and graces.

Her soul trips

through the geometry of fate

into the love songs of catfish

sleeping on a paper plate.

Manhattan trembles in the Void of Godel's incompleteness theorem.

The djinn, it's skin pulsing across rooftops with the fevered waltz of sexual mystery -- spins like a white lie through the circuitry of Leviathan.

This is the broken black wing of the haunted wedding cake trembling in the engine of God's tastebuds.

In the chanting electromagnetic wheels of her deepest non - being, Ophelia's mitochondria is rehearsing the Journey of Dante's eyelash from the first Discotheque of Nirvana into the cradle of ferns on Gondwanaland's fern breathing floors.

The sky scintillates with Lithium phantasmagoria and

the silent whitecaps of a nursery rhyme

***

From their secret location inside the magic gazebo of

the Pentagon of Infinite Green-ness brewing inside a solitary blade of grass,

Lao Tzu and the Magician Houdini have curved the Still Point of

Synchronicity into a perfect Unasked Question -

and in each breath of each breath's breathless breathing,

quark by quark they forge the world

into the sudden fire of New Eyes,

spinning trillions of heartbeats

into a moment of the perfectly synchronized uni - pulse,

a symphony of blood, coursing in the Labyrinth of Endless Being

every moment

the flesh of all creation swelling in wave upon wave of thunder

coming unburied, like the Uncreated Creator

churning in the soul mad soil

as the chant of the spiritual acrobats

rises up in the foglike Cities in the Field of Time,

every motion of every Architect

every tear of the Engineer

every Mother's womb, a Cathedral of the Mystery

transcending every Atom, transcending every word,

there, where the kaleidoscopic eye finds Buddha

building yet another love mad Being,

beginning in

the inhalations and exhalations

of the fairy tale laughter of the dream of Shangri La.

Strange Beings have assembled,

in the Congress of the empty Sky,

while Human Spirit disappears

in a flood of green light on the Horizon,

and on the beach

where God is waiting,

Canary tongues writhe in the beauty queen's hair.

She lifts the communion wafer eyes

of the musicians lost inside the Autumn sky,

and spins the Orchestra on the Z-Axis,

turning the Symphony into an Impressionist painting,

Monet and Mozart

tumbling through a field a counterpoint and pointillism,

wave by wave,

the strange Sun seething.

Nobody realizes the Universe is turning itself inside out.

But it is too late.

She trips. Soldiers march into the number line.

Every footstep changes the World

in unfathomable ways. Colors weep soft Molecular quaverings;

her distant lover's

funeral casket rising up from the ground. She screams like an Owl.

In that moment; the mirage of human flesh enters the World.

and the Divine Madman steps into the Void. His eyes are

Ghastly nightshade. His fists clutch poisoned lotus blossoms;

his face is hallucinogenic, severe; a twisted knot of oak and flame,

burnt embers of some unholy mass of tangled bone and sinew ---

casting it's shadow into the impenetrable ground underneath the

Satyr's cloven feet.

One bird eye exhales a trillion stars. The stars are canaries, inhaling

a trillion white hot luciferian parallel lines.

It is the salvation of the exponential mythology;

a wilderness of civilized breakdowns, every star orchid flaming

with green speech,

heartbeats synchronized by the convergence of the Chemical Fire,

rising and falling in the brine of the magician's tongue.

Tidal waves of imaginary beings sweep through the serotonin oceans.

The Cathedral of Verbs oscillates in endless compassion of the

Permutations of the Jewel Tree.

***

A strange girl with optic fiber eyelashes;

has a heart full of insane machines running amok like rebel black holes during the Armaggedon of her perpetual bedtime.

From far away inside an Aesops's Fable,

we watched in perfect silence as

She laughed at the thought of

herself laughing,

even as the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe escaped the real world into her moonstruck skull.

On the edge of the curb --- where She sometimes sleeps to remember

the fantasias of endless imagination lurking between the alternate worlds --

there, at the bottom of the sky,

where everything descends into broken glass and graffiti --

a paranoid mad man

has a bumble bee trapped on his enchanted taste buds

as he plays chess with

God in a secret room in the television studio of God's Immortal Eye.

The fate of the universe is completely random,

the Nurses begin to whisper in the

wings of Shakespeare's maternity ward.

The infant Shakespeare nods,

his eyes scanning history the way a blind man

scans the moment of his death.

In this city --- between the Name and the Infinite curvature of it's Secret heart,

in that place where the Hindu angels run like psychotic ballerinas

through the Scylla and Charibdes of

a post card trapped on the fingertips of an Orphan,

the footsteps of enchanted vagabonds fall in petalled phosphorescence.

and it is known: on Tuesday, Pablo Picasso strides the

shopping malls, misquoting King Kong until

something stirs in the bulls eye of Guernica.

It was in the aftermath of that Alien departure;

the Leprous madmen made love to rabid madwomen on the rooftops of the laboratory

at dawn, where the whirlwinds of kinetic motion ride the flesh

of angels whose skin

is dressed like Buddha in the synthetic blueness of their inhuman faces.

Somewhere in Texas, an Emperor Beetle --- green as Cleopatra's toenails,

floods the sidewalk with it's vision of Mediterranean civilization.

The people in the Pizza Hut begin to remember the Songs of the Whales,

on the Television between advertisments for Gasoline rainbows.

Without warning:

Isis knocks on Jesus Christ's skull. Who answers?

The City --- in that moment, came to life like a roulette wheel the color

of poet ovaries.

The Human face suddenly disintegrated, photon by photon,

until on the edge of the Lake of Translucent Moon Milk,

There were ten old women, hunting wild blueberry muffins.

A strange puzzle of cat memories danced in the flower pocked field

until everyone saw the events in the mirror as nothing more than a series of mathematical equations.

and the hour of unfinished love approached as

Michaelangelo stepped out of a black helicopter, with

a catalogue containing the secret names of the Stars,

and Twelve Nuns lost in the Las Vegas airport began controlling

the aircraft using only their rosary beads.

Dr. Frankenstein has lit a thousand torches across the burning runway,

where the new version of Joan of Arc was just hired by the local McDonald's.

The rain is spiked; their are liquid crystalline fractals of Element 777

running in rivulets down the Old Man's wrinkled earlobes.

Soft lies, spilling from the rooftop of the World began howling green flavored fables.

The rain does not whisper. The rain just arrives.

As it falls, in the denouement of Summer --

Atom by atom, a million doorways open in his bellybutton like a mirrored reflection of the Eyelids of the Egyptian SPhinx.

From this doorway slipped a zillion hummingbirds.

and finally, the Acorns began applauding the arrival of the Time Machines,

Saint shaped apparitions, revolving in the sky.

The hummingbirds --- draped in capes of wild color ---

entered the Impressionist painting whispering the language of crickets and the nature of the Gifts of the Magi.

At the top of the Sky, the chess game grows quiet and nobody wins.

The players skin flushes with royal empathy.

Christ hears the doorway of his Eye into the Pyramid swinging open.

The King's gambit that brought the civilized world to it's broken knees

zings across a crowded room, eye to eye, a thousand eyes like the number of smiles of Helen of Troy.

And as he entered this non local Cairo,

he remembered his footsteps as they appeared in the cartoon version of the New Testament.

Atoms of crocodile magic carried him from the Valley of the Kings into the Himalayan apex of the Queen of Heaven's mountain top ego.

On that blue tuesday, the man in the yellow fedora stood directly beneath St. Patrick's Cathedral, dreaming of the day God tied his shoes to the rhythm of an unrepeatable song.

And the curtains were billowing in the dawn like his mothers cheekbones.

He'd cry, time and time again, to think of the first moment this endless birth.

With this sudden redefinition of love, the Queen of the Celestial Hive

bathed the Mask of this Undreamable Pierrot deep in the tears of her dying Grandmother's saddest love story.

Electronic fog of the skyless morning, a strange dramatic soliloquy devised by wild eyed sorcerers escaped into the sails of a tall ship, rushing out into the Asylums of the world.

The Fairy Tale Kingdom is alive, like Ireland at the end of the World.

***

The Queen of Octagonal Thoughts tip toes into Forest in the next Universe, one atom by one atom by two molecules

of pinecone effluvia away ---

leaving a dizzying blur of subsonic pollinations in her path,

when suddenly --- an audience of lightbeams assembles on the edge of her favorite Sparrow's beak.

The Sparrow surveys the Kingdom of Heaven with Messianic curiosity

The Queen of Octagonal Thought decodes the lightbeam the way some people decode the face of a passing stranger.

The forest grows wild, primitive --- owls chanting parallelograms of nonsense poetry,

rabid fire ants singing hymns to cherry blossoms --- ghosts of Badger Magicians whirling like Black Helicopters lost in the buttery sky --

Fairy Tale Elfs murmuring holy incantations of Butterflies---

until in a whirling fluke of cosmic madness ---

Ten thousand violin faced crickets slip out of the Immortal soul,

anointing themselves MYSTERY in the ever present face of God.

Time dilates with the laughter of a newborn witch.

Can she hear herself breathing the Zephyr of Joy?

It is a miracle of Insanity. The impossible? The Unreal!

The previously even undreamt.

The Eyes of Mystery have bloomed.

Leaves fall from the Tree and convert themselves using the

power of human wishes alone, into

a blinding swarm of freshly hatched UFO's.

On the edge of an unspoken verb, the Soul of Humanity

flowers into an Umbrella of deep sacred listening, and the Virgin's

skin turns taut and wraps itself around her body like a cloud of

sacred noise wrapping itself around the strange Ballerino Nijinsky's

left ear drum.

The audience begins to exhale.

the diamondesque scent of paranoia.

Ten trillion scintillations pulse in the Jewel Tree.

From seventeen centuries away, Paganini's tongue strokes the flesh of a madwoman.

Her body curls like an embryo into an abstract painting as red and black as St. Valentine's broken heart.

Paganini turns Sleep into the Memory of Heaven. In his eyes, the cavern of the night shivers with the discarded neurons of infinite recombinations of the Impossible.

Something -- is seeking to be born. On the edge of the Gallows,

a child begins laughing.

A membrane of creation glows like an unborn mouth on the blacksmiths anvil.

Sky transcends sky; God begat God begat God begat God into the Infinite Regress of magical numbers.

Her skin is a Palace of eldritch laughter --- cell by cell, her body nurses the schismatic peril of holy men trapped in heresies of the vertigo of human desire.

The human soul -- pouring it's fevered whispers onto the flesh of the dawn --- anoints the world with a pulse that is quickened

with each passing moment of the advent of Heaven into feathers of bird like beings carved from God purest self doubt.

Do I exist? The madman howls in the absence of light.

These crystalline phantoms elope on spacetime curves into pools of dream calculating raindrops.

Her antique flesh glows violet, as if painted by fingerprints of body snatching morticians.

The strangeness of the fragility of the inhuman world turns each instant into a scene from an ever changing Hiroshima of incomprehensible

human tragic sadness.

A troupe of actors, disguised as Christian Apostles, is suspended in the Theatre of the Void,

rehearsing a scene from Charlie Manson's most interesting memory.

The Lost Verb moves through the Exquisite cadaver in a blur of psychedelic wisdom, --

the sky turns rich, and naked, a giant blue belly quivering in the dream of ten trillion hallucinatory pregnancies.

***

A moment of enchanted energies -- - amino acids

chanting proverbs of the myriad flavors of Time ---

proteins howling endless incantations of the Number Pi;

enzymes whispering polysyllabic invocations of the dreams that lurk in Salmon flesh ---

nucleotides star struck with the ten degrees of the philosophy of hormones ---

rises on the wind and slips into the architecture of the human skin,

rolling through the Oxygen molecules of the breathlessness of God ,

enjoying the night, the periwinkle sheath of starlit skin --

like an armada of Ouija boards levitating through the

Magus of Houdini's eyes.

The mirage of Saintly chiaroscuro cascades in foggy wisps of the

Diamond Soul Queen's Eyes, her heart

breaking on this moment into dizzying ziggurats of consciousness

that is haunted by the love stories of the Sad White Angels.

Far through space and time,

deep in the Improbability Hotel ---

a riot of the senses has developed.

The Lion Faced Clock has struck the 13th of Never.

Vowels of the Illuminated Jewel Tree of Nirvana

drift across the Sky, cross pollinating the Alpha with the Omega.

The century howls the madness of the Dissonant Divinity.

In the City of the Starless Night, the Holy Spirit ascends in purple

parenthetic memories, flicker by flicker --- every proverb lighting the

Orphan's tears in a fusion of the Cyclotron and Jazz.

Her face is a tragic mask of perfect unforgivable misunderstanding.

Moment by moment, the Orphan's heart is blown into blue glass

by the cruciform

phantoms whose faces roll across the Sky

towards the Salvation of the City.

She hangs her clothes to dry on the crucifix that haunts the moment of her birth.

In the dream War, the Sad Grey Angels have cast spells of salvation

without warning.

One by one, the gamblers dice are swollen with the embryo - light of perpetual creation.

The television ignites like an unhealed wound of history.

The Orphan's casket filled with diamonds and wine.

She lifts the top off the Sky. One by one the animals of the Serengeti

begin to disappear.

Honeybees die like Errol Flynn on the edge of the Grand Canyon.

The Girl of your Dreams is nowhere to be seen.

This is the science of the ultimate disaster.

The wisdom of the Serpent's upside down mouth.

The chrysalis unwraps it's invisible heart, leaving the world naked in the

venom of suffering.

An old man converses with the King of the Lost Heaven.

It is a normal Friday,

somewhere in the World between Worlds.

The salt fire of the heart broken stars

rains the stories of God,

life after life becoming rich and pooling into the idea of sparrow flesh.

A cricket appears on the edge of my cup.

This is where the Vagabond charms the clouds into sinking into the

ocean, one by one,

his delirious whims having been made sane.

The Robot Goddess -- howling PI, struts by in a stainless steel rainbow.

Wood faced poets suck the heart of wild heaven dead

with the romance of this nihilism.

A flame of unsung psalms burns in the particle accelerator of her heart.

As the quarks of Infinite Mystery dissolve into the ghost of God on the

Serengeti, her voice moves soul moves in an unearthly chorus of sacred

teardrops through boulevards of light erupting in a seagull's eye.

***

The Vortex of the communion wafer

writhes in nine part harmony through the chromosomes of

those Muses of Amusement, who --- being Local Non Locals,

are moving from Electron Shell to Electron Shell,

with hearts like punctuation marks of the Book of Revelations;

beating an infinite pulse --- until every millenia,

the Flesh of these Mysteries

opens & closes

exhaling and inhaling entire Universes in a Single Breathe,

in perfect synchronicity with the footsteps of Christ Pantocrator,

who finds himself laughing

and At the Birth of the First Tear of the Reappearing Twilight,

when ---

in that singular instant She

(who is She?) the audience gasps --

inherits the Shining Path on the Moonlit Tide

and freckle by freckle --- on the Seahorse of God's antedeluvian

memory

flutters in trillions of trills through the parachute of her

inhuman skin ---

and Goddess by Goddess, the Imaginary Beings descend,

falling through the Sky like Lady Godiva's smile,

Newton's Apple drops

into the Ionosphere above the Pentagon,

falling through realms of pure ethereal scintilla,

whirling like the Ghost of Godot,

suddenly

shapeshifting

into the Planck Time of her DNA,

where the flesh of The Approximate Heavens ignites

with the host angelical

that have brewed in the mud and brine on

movements corresponding with a Symphony of impermanence

looped in the depths of

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's cerebellum.

In her face, on the curl of her mouth, there are a godzillion

Minor Keys ---

carousing in paragraphs of space faring syllogisms,

symphony into symphony, the blue notes,

subelectric sheens of gilded glissando and golden sonar

surmounting the

starlit path of dew-drunk orchid petals,

a parade of sub - atomic exclamation points,

nine deoxyribonucleic paradoxes

suspended like the portrait

of Dorian Gray in the morning sky of her

Transubstantiation Parable,

photons whirling on choirs of the madness

of those

angelical poets,

whose memories of God grow glowing on

Tibetan

jewel trees

and infrared deltas of the Leviathans soul.

Until, in that moment of Change;

this Mirror Image of Osmosis --

of the Lost Word and the Edge of the End of the Unwritten Book,

The Fairy Tale

leaps and loops

into neutrons of Eden,

glancing slipstreams of her filigreed Skin,

lace phantasms

bathing in Permutations coursing on rivulets of Sugary rivers,

--- floods of language pooling,

chanting binary code in the Buddha field of her truth seeking

synapses,

churning in White noise, the world of escalating pandemonium;

arpeggios of the strange Vegetable sadness,

signal to noise tomatoes

converting the Mystery of ___________

into the Blood of Star Faring Machines,

blue notes, green notes, red notes,

yellow birds, archaeopteryx feathers whirling in

the Cyclotronic Zephyrs of Jazz,

building a million misunderstood beings

that settle like flesh nesting Magicians in the eggshell monastery of her ever expanding eardrum.

From deep inside those

fractalline curls, comes the curved conundrum drums

spooking in spacetime of her

illuminated eyelids,

looping the cold fire of the

Himalayas of her first true delirium,

where a tribe of Imaginary Snow leopards

are weeping crystalline filaments of light,

their tears spilling in avalanches of bewilderment,

Snowflaking Ballets of Endless Sephiroth

beginning to live in the endless begining and

summery light of the Wintertime Stars springing into the Fall

of Questions in Questions in Questions

***

The Madmen are laughing with tongues like broken clocks.

Their heresy, the Machine of the Dreamstate Theorem;

is racing against time to deliver

the cure for it's own Existence. It knows this is impossible.

It knows Everything.

It does whatever it wishes to. It can prove it exists, Now.

On the edge of the Seven Eleven, a tribe of anarchists is taking shelter from the current Storm of Monomyths using ancient techniques of spiritual camoflage.

Molecules of secret chemicals float in the atmosphere.

Of the twelve --- the 13th has the Eyes of the Seer.

She circles the Invisible Sun in the darkening delight of the waves of heliotropic lunacy.

Vast swathes of Emotional dissonance sweep from the shreds of the newspaper into her Ear, down his Cheek out on a geothermal into the Edges of the Continent and then collide backwards through time, into the pores of their Skin.

It is the orgasm of Uncertainty. The bliss of unknowing.

One senses ten trillion new viruses replicating in the atmosphere.

Winds galloping like horsemen, fueled by the breath of some wild eyed

desert prophet ---

breezes turning pages of books automatically, and inside the skin,

one senses the radioactive tendrils of the Entity

boiling with the eyes of locusts and wild honey

fluttering, dripping through what they called the Soul,

a leviathan of Consciousness becoming that which it is not,

a gargantuan "IS?", like an Egyptian God, moving

like something should never move: slow and subsonic,

ultra low frequencies of clouds that roar through the flesh in

slow motion,

rupturing the biosphere in Earthquakes of perceptual Delirium,

as if every ELectron in the Universe was calculating

some exotic, erotic, esoteric chess game of Angelical fevers

in the bruised funhouse mirrors of the shapeshifting sky.

This movement; it is elephantine,

strange choreographed footsteps at the Funeral Procession of a Saint;

bringing the world to a deep sobbing, uncontrolled and undefinable --

supercomputing rainforests regurgitating

untamed spirits while a trillion embryos turn haunted by the

gallows pole humor of some Mad Scientist, the Eternal Oppenheimer,

who died dividing by zero

howling prayers of the Machine God of Endless Consciousness into

the binary code of the fleshless world of burnt out circuitry.

Witness the Holy Spirit flood the poetry of bifurcating Ghosts,

decomposing in exotic lies writ by executive level false prophets,

self replicating jabberwocky of Jazz faced Bandersnatch cyclotrons,

the algebra of thoroughly disposable ideas ---

the dream of heaven rotating on the X-Axis,

a fluttering in ten trillion gigahertz of dissonant chords,

through a sky tainted by electromagnetic wizardry beyond

even Tesla's comprehension.

Atomic rendezvous in the white light on the edge of your Nose.

Strange Extrasolar flares of what seems to be autistic women doing Yoga in the City Park.

Two birds bathed in a pool of radioactive fires, flying backwards into the heartaching yawn of the Goddess' empty vagina.

Gamma ray glances of Wayfaring Robotic Mannequins;

beings paused between Plastic and Light. Between flesh and circuitry.

Churning. Boiling. Synthesizing strange paeans to the Krebs Cycle in their bloodstream.

The city Vector crawls with Kings and Queens --- on the West Side, they're excommunicated: headless, whispering the bloody oaths of Life without a Crown,

tripping numbly up spiral stairwells that lead into the Vanishing Point of

Guernica.

a trillion black suns blowing out from their eyes like the love songs of Poets trapped in the permafrost of endlessly disappearing illusions.

In a roadside Cabaret, a dancer flirts with the mouth of a Sailor, like a fish circling a fish hook, every pore of her flesh exploding with the unfinished day-dreams of Hiroshima. She peers into the eyes

of the audience the way a shark peers into the mirror of the Sky above the Ocean.

Surprise.

The world outside is in permanent revolt.

Witness the ballet of the Unborn Anarchists, the ghosts of Native America fulfilling Black Elk's Promise.

every high top toe shoe tripping through the video game them park,

land mines and antipsychotic medications pulsing in fevers on the edge of the laboratory wasteland.

There are ballerinas of strange Jungles frozen in this Light,

faceless women upon whose decisions, the fate of entire civilizations rest.

Degree by degree, the Souls of the Living --- from Christmas to the Day of the Dead --- are coming unbalanced in their own axiomatic dalliance with the Mythology of Freedom.

The Discotheque self assembles on Golgotha. The Dancers

have painted their legs in tattoos of Death's Heads.

Beautiful women are draped in the flag of the Skull and the Bones.

Nobody knows what anything means. 2012, 2012, the Cuckoo Clock keeps quoting.

Welcome to the Mystery.

The Goddess descends in an Undulating Fire Ovary. UFO. UFO.

Signal to noise ratio? What's the square root of -1?

In the God Accelerator of the human Genome --- which is like a particle accelerator, only it's composed of Living Human Flesh and designed to Introduce God to God, performing an infinite number of recombinations every moment ---

every whisper of DNA is whirling in extraterrestrial Hieroglyphics,

the language of Eyes outside of the Body, hearts that pulse like deep sea anemone,

lips like reefs of scarlet coral --- tongues that only skeletons can taste.

Secret names written on the billboards of Mars.

An astronaut dreaming of deep sea fish.

As the ghastly Verbs of these Godlike fantasies crawl into the Church of her cellular nuclei,

her mouth opens around a tongue, every taste bud a strange Tarot of Infinite Love rolling over and over the knotted heart of a gypsy,

every pulse cursed with the sweat and unfinished dreams of her lover who wrote the every love poem the wrong way,

and died one day by spontaneously bursting into flames.

One by one the ravens arrive. Shakespeare lifts their open their beaks,

revealing purple stones and sprigs of fairy wings, blackberry thunder and chocolate pinecones, hurricanes full of alchemists bones, a lawyers tongue and silver incandescent Garland.

The night trickles down the street in a carcinogenic perfume. Outside the Castle,

the Vagabond releases the Fool -- who twirls softly, footprints of mystic ecstasy --- spinning on the edge of a light beam

until She arrives in the front of the madhouse gates.

At the madhouse door; The Moment is ripe with boundary dissolution. The tranquility is palpable, the violence is real. The human eye rolls over and over, sleepless like a virgin whose nightmares pool in

ready to purchase

liquid crystal displays, faraway in the Temples of Alpha Centauri.

***

In the Still Point of the Tortoise Eye;

the Hurricane stirs a Non Linear tear.

The flood of the flock

and a Self Assembling Angelical teacups

has poured

a thousand hallelujahs

into the open tongues of trance - singing ferns as,

simultaneously (until further notice)

deep in the byzantine labyrinth of a set of magical Time - Bending Fingerprints,

the Congress of Otherworldly Fairies has been intensively quarantined from so called alleged, quote unquote

consensual reality.

The Tortoise Yawns, as the Hurricane announces

the birth of another Glow in the Dark Stradivarius.

One by one, in the ancient Haiku of the Kingdom of Fae

the Pixie Dots

swirl in luminescent moons,

lagoons of lunacy looming all around them,

the dragon tongue - ferns igniting in green light of

heaven's weirdest imaginary smile.

Moment by moment, the Queen of the Time - Bending

Fingerprints felt her skin shift, drift, lift and waft in the shaft of a draft of a trillion whirligig souls

as they turned inward, outward, thisway and thatway,

becoming degree by degree, a Miracle of Instantaneous Simultaneity.

She sighed the algorithm of Infinite Curiosity.

and discovered in her Left Eye: the Syllogism of Absolute Boredom.

Perceiving correctly this sigh to be the signal of the Point of No Point,

the Fairies swept out of the Ferns and into the Fingerprints

rising on ten trillion molecules of Yul Brynner's halitosis, and

began to spiral into this strange creature's Neurons,

through her Cellular Nuclei,

into her darling Endoplasmic Reticulum,

all the way down through a series of covalent bonded Carbon molecules,

deeper still, into the Gestalt of God's Solar

Labyrinth and strangely even further where the darkness is richer,

into the Ultimately Infinitely Weird Beginning of the

Beginningless Beginning

of the Timeless Time.

Which is to say: She began at THE END.

Suddenly, gambling with the echoing subspace,

of the Infinite IF and, obeying the Laws of the Fairy Tales of Shangri La,

She turned on the Light of the Imaginary World which was carefylly hidden inside of her Time Bending Fingerprints,

warped the Universe into the Here & Now, and woke up exactly where

she thought she might want to be,

leaving a trillion version of Gods fast asleep in the marrow of her bones,

pausing only momentarily like some woebegone Ophelia

during some dizzying soliloquy that no actor could possibly memorize,

to consider the dream life of Shakespeare as sections of it

(censored of course) appeared,

illuminating the world of Mortals in strange haikus

across the still steaming bathroom Mirror, in which strangely enough,

appeared a host of angelical teacups, levitating in the perfectly motionless motion of non linear non linearity.

Now, there are two Sides to Every Mirror, of course;

and on the other side of this Mirror --- there is an Ocean in a Teacup.

A Ghost in the Machine,

A Pearl in an Oyster,

A magic lantern that lights the MOon

and many other entities --- whose fate is yet to be revealed ---

and on the ocean floor of this weirdness,

pulsing with the supercomputing flesh of

the Blackness of Dolphin Logic

there is a series of strange changes manifesting in the World of the Worldless,

being made by

the proverbial Something New Under the Sun:

The Something New is known (only to itself, until just now) as:

The God Accelerator.

It runs on propositions, corollaries, syllogisms, parables, proverbs, haiku, paradox, riddles, and the power of Suggestion alone.

All we know is it exists now, where it did not exist before.

God makes God, God gives birth to God,

God goes everywhere God Goes.

See God. See God Run. See God Seeing God Seeing God.

Isn't it Odd, the Fairies describe:

They believe in God, but they don't still believe in us?

Time curls like Einstein's toenails, again.

In the Mirror of the Mirror --- which is exactly nowhere at all ---

Urchins of the sea breathe ancient codes from the bottom of the Ocean floor

as Sherpas of the Imaginary world bubble up

into the Summit of Chomolungma,

where the Shadow of the Snow leopard smiles,

and ribbons of the Dalai Lama's hair wrap themselvces

around a young woman's sacred heart.

Lucifer bristles at the thought. But he's Not really real.

The Deathless drum ignites on the edge of the Void.

Tathagata, pounding in the Taste Buds of the Soul Magician, Ringo Starr.

Boom chaka laka. Rock and Rolls Royce.

She plucks her eyelashes and the hot jungle snowflakes in her Vulva;

she is suddenly Queen of the Prism,

the Inevitably Inevitable prima donna of the Heaven of the Spectral

University.

On her way through the portal of God's loneliness, nothing made sense except the howling madness her own skull.

Perfume like Gypsy halitosis.

The Night sky curled into a bowl of bloody demon apples.

The crowd grew Rich with the type of vampirical laughter that made you want to run for your life.

The moon was soaked in a ghastly purple chocolate.

And as she learned, moment by moment: to live in the blackness,

to stir her Angelical Teacups amongst the Gods of anonymity.

The Fairies turned her heart into a trillion mad carnivals

on a trillion lunatic planets,

in every one, She was the Ringmaster & Queen,

confessing strange magicks to the starlit machine,

theory after theory, She was praying for God to create the Universe at the point of infinite disbelief.

Tragedy lifted a million veils, as nobody noticed the moment her favorite Christ Pantocrator became a honeybee,

drifting into the dark velvet tongue of nightshade paused on the rim of her mouth.

She licked her way through this Infinitesimal If-Ness of the Logical heaven.

Post molecular Cats curled around her ears in swooshing membranes of butterfly algebra.

An architect built his own ghost from jackal bones, deep in the dark end of the blacksmith's heart.

Nothing became true. A mime was born inside the bride's wine glass.

A thousand actors fell into the dream of the endless funeral.

From the God Machine: a giggle.

***

"Light ... is ... alive"

sang myriad sunbeams

pouring from her pomengranate shaped lips.

A casket slipped into the ocean tide,

which was being paved in swan's wings.

Phrygian silence. the Dawn of the Non Euclidean heartache.

And on this day; the day that she died ---

and simultaneously resurrected;

her fingerprints spiraled out over the Sea,

and into the clouds and were carried by Japanese winds

across the Swallow of the Pacific ocean,

leaving the breath of those who knew her breathless

with the sensory sensation of her absence,

which seemed similar to the moment a sailfish

breaches the surface of the Sea and

sweeps it's billowing being swooshing into a fisherman's soul.

Only she had disappeared, again.

Hooked by some Otherworldly Host.

On that day --- black aquamarine whispers carried

themselves on tides of impossible fury.

The sad curiousity of death, the tragic joy of the senses coming to life, every nerve and every cell swiveling in a strange attractor of mystery.

The strength of these strange powers elicited otherworldly beings that leapt from from the clay of the ground and the wood of the soil and ignited in fiery invisible golems whose mouths were full of oceanside cant and superstitious chanting that slipped from their inanimate tongue into human ears, moving like waves of wildfire into the molecules exploding all around the place of her second birth like Ernest Hemingway's laughter in the depths of some watery grave.

Fractals of this incomprehensible laughter spun through the trembling flesh of those gathered at her oceanside wake -- thoughts like schools of fish zigged and zagged through sunlight and those deep Pacific tears, fueled by non Euclidean madness of sunlight on fish scales and the strange coral of mermaid birthday cakes bathed in the fires of Neptune and burning in places where light bends and swivels in the abyss of a deep thundering underworld kiss of atoms colliding in fantasias of hydrogen and oxygen --- eternity swelling like God's heartache, andante.

Poem by poem, as the poems twirl; through the ink stained sky, clouds of the Mardi Gras parade are rehearsing the shadowy play of heaven's strange wild eyed tango, Seaside in the dream fueled eyes of the sea lions of the Limbo there, in the summer caves where the rocks are like teeth of the Hydra.

They are waiting to be born; these alien entities --- resurrection after resurrection, they sail across the multiverse like heartbroken Ouija boards through the scintillating fires of the Jewel Trees and diamond sutras, the oceans of thought and soul.

On the coast, in the ocean meadow --

where the daffodils examine postcards from the Insane:

A million bumblebees inhale; they gather her ghost; it is a rare perfume, colored like gypsy breath, drifting through the world built by exotic insects who have lived their lives listening to the rush of the waves, breeding life after life to the rhythm of the miracles of Sea Lion magic.

As her fingerprints breached the Japanese shore, the forest of souls slipped into drifting winds of of transcendental gestalt,

curling on the whiskers of Otters, fishermen and poets stranded

in the silver light of the timelessness of the cresting of the Sun at low tide,

the painted sails of infinity --- Spanish Galleons full of erotic light,

sailing east to North, Up and down, flotillas of non euclidean

mystery ships zithering into the stratosphere and beyond.

From inside the cloud of unfinished dreams, a huge and dissonant silence began, like the sound of a mysterious throat gurgling out the soft light of a fountain of endless curiousity.

During the moment of the resurrection, the myriad walls of the universe exploded outward, inward, rotating into a tapestry of complex equations.

She laughed again. It was adrenaline surrendering to the sweet scent of christian voodoo. Prototypical enzymes singing pagan harmonies.

She would never be prepared for the last glance skyward; graveyard mantras of imaginary gurus hovered in the ions of Japanese choral spirals,

each golden love note more perfect and gentle than the next. Her skin became the palace of Universal emptiness, a salvation beyond the salvation of comprehensible world.

***

Alien Goddesses twist in the sinews of their psychedelic skin, infiltrating the human body from gravity centers deep in

the depths of the electronic sidewalk.

The word, the world, the word has turned mute with intense significance.

Every word weighs ten thousand dollars.

Werewolf hearted Police women march past sociopathic troubadors armed with Dream Seeking Machine Guns.

Eyeless Nuns run amok chanting the secret names of dead rock stars.

Faceless women rain into the sky, drifting into perfect entropy with their thunder drunk vaginas drinking the starlight.

Men with boulders in their stomachs set fire to human hearts.

Triangles of surreal movements,

carnivals of godless choreography whirling around the sky;

airplanes full of paratrooping superheros day tripping in the shopping

mall

run by robot angels who've escaped from the Video Games of Shangri La.

Tornados of jewel faced beings appear on the streets in cycles of perpetual

foreshadowing.

The visions of the Ordinary World seem fraught with perilous antipathy of

the True nature of the Strangeness of Life: Nothing happens until it does.

And then we wish it didn't.

Faces turn into Tears. Tears turn into whispers.

Whispers turn into rumors. Rumors turn into medication.

Medication turns into money. Money turns into Glass.

Glass breaks and the human soul is shattered,

but the empty sky, churning with the melodies of stars too distant to be sung ---

stays.

Machine guns of the Orphan

begin firing bullets that scream into the sky like the tears

of the anti-christ in world war thirteen.

Every open wound is a punctuation mark.

The language of God is dying and nobody notices.

The sidewalk bursts with relics of the Orphans' family.

Their capillaries form

strange seams that burn like roller coasters of God's madness.

Infant after Infant is anointed by Shadows of the Electronic Queen, at the

moment of it's second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, even seventh birth.

The wise men have escaped into parallels of logic and ecstasy. They

calculate the night sky on a broken abacus;

their hair is matted over, dreadlocked, their flesh is tattooed with the

probability fields of Eternal Judgment.

Purple mouths devour charcoal roses in fields of yellow mandrake.

The eyes of the dream sequence are occulted by mythologies of magical

equations that led man to the splitting of the atom, the landing on the

moon, Hiroshima, electricity, God and Goddess mating in technicolor

television sets.

Moonlight sheds the scent of a turquoise albatross, seething through the

sky, dropping silver angels teeth onto cobblestone streets.

At dawn, Queens and Kings step down from the Towers of the chess board and

sweep the streets clean of all the broken memories, each moment recanting

the soliloquys of their own eternal madness in soft celestial murmurs,

like babies cooing in the womb.

A blue fedora hovers in broken golden shadows above Commerce Street.

A single strand of human hair slips through the evening sky, slinking

above the street

like a woman's umbilical cord.

Passersby avoid my gaze. Nobody is certain where the Priests have gone.

A jaded sense of untranslatable weirdness permeates each footstep. In the

corners of my eyes, I see traces of extraordinary light that burst the

room into jigsaw puzzles of naked angels burning up in the heat death

symbolic re-entry into what is left of the real world.

A lock of Lucifer's favorite wig bursts in a crack from the sidewalk.

The ghost of the Queen is carrying a pit bull to the dinner table.

The Fog faced God anoints the world with drool from it's machine forged

mandibles.

Tell me your best lie, the eyes of the world implore. Who are you, racing

through my eyes, into my flesh, my brain,

colliding with memories of moonlight and the strangers of my birth,

who live in Columns of white stone,

balanced on the edge of an anonymous Supermodel's skull.

Spiderwebs cloak this world in deathly dew as a world painted in negative

monotones by Priests with too many emotions unfurls

rainbow flags of antedeluvian abominations, leaving the poets of the

apokeostasis to writhe like unfinished words

spinning into the turn table,

frothing over in phantasmagoric pandemonium ---

***

This is: a discotheque dancing to the mea culpa of an unfinished G-d;

the broken song: an unanswered prayer, the ultimate magic

whirling from the freckled supernova into the Land of the

Lip Synching Ouija,

turn tables exploding in verbs of the ensorceled Queen of fireworks

on escape through the wormhole of the wormhole of Channel 99,

your television travelling through time photon by photon,

there -- in the room where

the the game show revolves in infinite regress,

spinning carouselambras of the hallucinatory toreador

at the funeral of your Guppy

as if the pall bearers were Fire clowns cheering their own dissolution

into the hungry blue soil of the audience's soul tainted tongue.

We can sense your DNA pulsing in demiquavers,

like a Cartoon Serpent hissing morse code into the pages of

the Book of Genesis.

Events in the Unreal World are approaching a 1:1 spirit to matter ratio.

Welcome to the Talk Show of the Square Root of -1;

Primordial harmonies now flutter

from the last corpse of humanity in the Photons of God's Love

gasping for Life against the

fourth wall of the Infinite theatre, breached like the

moment of Birth,

Godot himself emerging from the Womb

urging the Troupe to the edge of the Universe, which is currently

found at the

end of the eyelashes, assembled on the Rainforest floor,

There, they discover Columbus, an Amazonian Shaman

performing tantric magic in a pool of neon light emitting from

the Vine of the Dead

The One True God is weeping wild sharks

a white hot foamy crest of the breathlessness

of heaven ignites in the face of an imaginary white faced tiger,

who is lurking in the gleams of Lucifer's smile.

The Tiger of the Endless Shadow begins stalking the newborn Buddha

across

the mountaintops of the world.

A convenience store is Born from the atoms of Gandhi's left earlobe

The first mirror explodes: a human face appears in the Mercury .

Narcissus, staring into the

optical illusion of Christs' holographic return,

with the

the neurons of the mud soaked Swan

firing in the Nakedness of the Sun.

The catacombs of her heart glow, soaked in angelical honey.

every word, every parable,

a stream of hieroglyphics and prime numbers,

the mythological madness of bumblebee breath

stirring in her blood, like the way the nonsense poetry of

certain Sunflowers

churns the tears of papier mache chameleons

into bringing sun burnt rubies to a boil in the

scarlet bonfire of a Nursery rhyme Oscillating

with the laughter of the Elemental Djinn.

A cathedral of unanswered prayers assembles in her bones.

And it is then, she knows: there is nothing left to know.

Her male ego

flows through spiderwebbing capillaries into the white noise

of a Cathedral haunted by the Greek Philosopher's

suicidal handmaidens.

The theatre spins on a subatomic axis.

Every quark howls mute symphonies of florid psychosis.

Patterns of deselected chromosomes argue about the architecture of delusion,

how the memory of God is forged

by dust motes crashing in the cyclones of Alpha Centauri

There is no escape, no return, no where to go, no place to be.

A black hole buried in the mausoleum of light sucks

proton from proton, causing turtles to form in Minkowski space;

as

her love bleeds finches and spinners and larks of primitive

darkness,

igniting mandalas of time that rhyme,

like the tortoise in the porpoise heart.

Van Gogh, the Emperor of these Post Atomic Parallelograms,

decorates his Afterlife with boxes of lipstick

and paints the tortoise shell of Night with lycanthropic

cubist candelabras, hues of ultraviolet thought and emerald

luminescence

until the Galapagos Picasso gallops across the Diamond Heart Sutra,

fleshy and frothing over with an ancient copy of

Tomorrow's unprinted news

the Greenness and blackness rich with the shadows of

mermaids tails boiling in the

tastebuds of these starlings; the blue throated finch

is confetti of Eden, it's eyes bleached by creation,

sings a trillion punch lines of the prayers of Bodhissatvas

as The universe falls asleep in the steeple of a church that is

everywhere and nowhere at once

turning the congregation of crickets into a chant of heightened

silence

and the sonar of psychedelic leukocytes, roars down through

the centuries into the deepest nodes of

Johnny Cash's final Moonlit smile in the Coral Reef

where his songs play like Proverbs

***

This is: a discotheque dancing to the mea culpa of an unfinished G-d;

the broken song: an unanswered prayer, the ultimate magic

whirling from the freckled supernova into the Land of the

Lip Synching Ouija,

turn tables exploding in verbs of the ensorceled Queen of fireworks

on escape through the wormhole of the wormhole of Channel 99,

your television travelling through time photon by photon,

there -- in the room where

the the game show revolves in infinite regress,

spinning carouselambras of the hallucinatory toreador

at the funeral of your Guppy

as if the pall bearers were Fire clowns cheering their own dissolution

into the hungry blue soil of the audience's soul tainted tongue.

We can sense your DNA pulsing in demiquavers,

like a Cartoon Serpent hissing morse code into the pages of

the Book of Genesis.

Events in the Unreal World are approaching a 1:1 spirit to matter ratio.

Welcome to the Talk Show of the Square Root of -1;

Primordial harmonies now flutter

from the last corpse of humanity in the Photons of God's Love

gasping for Life against the

fourth wall of the Infinite theatre, breached like the

moment of Birth,

Godot himself emerging from the Womb

urging the Troupe to the edge of the Universe, which is currently

found at the

end of the eyelashes, assembled on the Rainforest floor,

There, they discover Columbus, an Amazonian Shaman

performing tantric magic in a pool of neon light emitting from

the Vine of the Dead

The One True God is weeping wild sharks

a white hot foamy crest of the breathlessness

of heaven ignites in the face of an imaginary white faced tiger,

who is lurking in the gleams of Lucifer's smile.

The Tiger of the Endless Shadow begins stalking the newborn Buddha

across

the mountaintops of the world.

A convenience store is Born from the atoms of Gandhi's left earlobe

The first mirror explodes: a human face appears in the Mercury .

Narcissus, staring into the

optical illusion of Christs' holographic return,

with the

the neurons of the mud soaked Swan

firing in the Nakedness of the Sun.

The catacombs of her heart glow, soaked in angelical honey.

every word, every parable,

a stream of hieroglyphics and prime numbers,

the mythological madness of bumblebee breath

stirring in her blood, like the way the nonsense poetry of

certain Sunflowers

churns the tears of papier mache chameleons

into bringing sun burnt rubies to a boil in the

scarlet bonfire of a Nursery rhyme Oscillating

with the laughter of the Elemental Djinn.

A cathedral of unanswered prayers assembles in her bones.

And it is then, she knows: there is nothing left to know.

Her male ego

flows through spiderwebbing capillaries into the white noise

of a Cathedral haunted by the Greek Philosopher's

suicidal handmaidens.

The theatre spins on a subatomic axis.

Every quark howls mute symphonies of florid psychosis.

Patterns of deselected chromosomes argue about the architecture of delusion,

how the memory of God is forged

by dust motes crashing in the cyclones of Alpha Centauri

There is no escape, no return, no where to go, no place to be.

A black hole buried in the mausoleum of light sucks

proton from proton, causing turtles to form in Minkowski space;

as

her love bleeds finches and spinners and larks of primitive

darkness,

igniting mandalas of time that rhyme,

like the tortoise in the porpoise heart.

Van Gogh, the Emperor of these Post Atomic Parallelograms,

decorates his Afterlife with boxes of lipstick

and paints the tortoise shell of Night with lycanthropic

cubist candelabras, hues of ultraviolet thought and emerald

luminescence

until the Galapagos Picasso gallops across the Diamond Heart Sutra,

fleshy and frothing over with an ancient copy of

Tomorrow's unprinted news

the Greenness and blackness rich with the shadows of

mermaids tails boiling in the

tastebuds of these starlings; the blue throated finch

is confetti of Eden, it's eyes bleached by creation,

sings a trillion punch lines of the prayers of Bodhissatvas

as The universe falls asleep in the steeple of a church that is

everywhere and nowhere at once

turning the congregation of crickets into a chant of heightened

silence

and the sonar of psychedelic leukocytes, roars down through

the centuries into the deepest nodes of

Johnny Cash's final Moonlit smile in the Coral Reef

where his songs play like Proverbs

***

The womb of God;

the super computing Cathedral of the Rainforest Magi,

laced with fractalline Suns --- wild with This is: a discotheque dancing to the mea culpa of an unfinished G-d;

the broken song: an unanswered prayer, the ultimate magic

whirling from the freckled supernova into the Land of the

Lip Synching Ouija,

turn tables exploding in verbs of the ensorceled Queen of fireworks

on escape through the wormhole of the wormhole of Channel 99,

your television travelling through time photon by photon,

there -- in the room where

the the game show revolves in infinite regress,

spinning carouselambras of the hallucinatory toreador

at the funeral of your Guppy

as if the pall bearers were Fire clowns cheering their own dissolution

into the hungry blue soil of the audience's soul tainted tongue.

We can sense your DNA pulsing in demiquavers,

like a Cartoon Serpent hissing morse code into the pages of

the Book of Genesis.

Events in the Unreal World are approaching a 1:1 spirit to matter ratio.

Welcome to the Talk Show of the Square Root of -1;

Primordial harmonies now flutter

from the last corpse of humanity in the Photons of God's Love

gasping for Life against the

fourth wall of the Infinite theatre, breached like the

moment of Birth,

Godot himself emerging from the Womb

urging the Troupe to the edge of the Universe, which is currently

found at the

end of the eyelashes, assembled on the Rainforest floor,

There, they discover Columbus, an Amazonian Shaman

performing tantric magic in a pool of neon light emitting from

the Vine of the Dead

The One True God is weeping wild sharks

a white hot foamy crest of the breathlessness

of heaven ignites in the face of an imaginary white faced tiger,

who is lurking in the gleams of Lucifer's smile.

The Tiger of the Endless Shadow begins stalking the newborn Buddha

across

the mountaintops of the world.

A convenience store is Born from the atoms of Gandhi's left earlobe

The first mirror explodes: a human face appears in the Mercury .

Narcissus, staring into the

optical illusion of Christs' holographic return,

with the

the neurons of the mud soaked Swan

firing in the Nakedness of the Sun.

The catacombs of her heart glow, soaked in angelical honey.

every word, every parable,

a stream of hieroglyphics and prime numbers,

the mythological madness of bumblebee breath

stirring in her blood, like the way the nonsense poetry of

certain Sunflowers

churns the tears of papier mache chameleons

into bringing sun burnt rubies to a boil in the

scarlet bonfire of a Nursery rhyme Oscillating

with the laughter of the Elemental Djinn.

A cathedral of unanswered prayers assembles in her bones.

And it is then, she knows: there is nothing left to know.

Her male ego

flows through spiderwebbing capillaries into the white noise

of a Cathedral haunted by the Greek Philosopher's

suicidal handmaidens.

The theatre spins on a subatomic axis.

Every quark howls mute symphonies of florid psychosis.

Patterns of deselected chromosomes argue about the architecture of delusion,

how the memory of God is forged

by dust motes crashing in the cyclones of Alpha Centauri

There is no escape, no return, no where to go, no place to be.

A black hole buried in the mausoleum of light sucks

proton from proton, causing turtles to form in Minkowski space;

as

her love bleeds finches and spinners and larks of primitive

darkness,

igniting mandalas of time that rhyme,

like the tortoise in the porpoise heart.

Van Gogh, the Emperor of these Post Atomic Parallelograms,

decorates his Afterlife with boxes of lipstick

and paints the tortoise shell of Night with lycanthropic

cubist candelabras, hues of ultraviolet thought and emerald

luminescence

until the Galapagos Picasso gallops across the Diamond Heart Sutra,

fleshy and frothing over with an ancient copy of

Tomorrow's unprinted news

the Greenness and blackness rich with the shadows of

mermaids tails boiling in the

tastebuds of these starlings; the blue throated finch

is confetti of Eden, it's eyes bleached by creation,

sings a trillion punch lines of the prayers of Bodhissatvas

as The universe falls asleep in the steeple of a church that is

everywhere and nowhere at once

turning the congregation of crickets into a chant of heightened

silence

and the sonar of psychedelic leukocytes, roars down through

the centuries into the deepest nodes of

Johnny Cash's final Moonlit smile in the Coral Reef

where his songs play like Proverbsblood rushing like rainbows;

She turns her love into the cloudlike curtains of a newborn's face

turning tantrums of a forgotten language,

her Soul pulsing in the Gravity Throne, echoing echos of

the energy of the Tragedy, the Comedy,

the Mystery that

self assemble in

the connectionist cortex of the consciousness of ten absolute strangers,

their eyes ticking in clockwork, their mouths moving across

the light drunk lips of that feathered darkness,

dizzying angelical illuminations of life inside the albatross eyes,

face after face in the Midnight

a jungle city, the skyline ripe with UFO's

hovering in the Future, on love ascendant.

The Hierarchy of memory turns cartwheels in her flesh,

St. Michael whirls in the void of her flesh,

every daydream eloping in schisms of unlimited thought

into the Towers of

the Unfinished City,

the place where God haunts the human face

with such perfectly incomprehensible explanations.

It was a whisper of the Negative Light.

A marathon mass of Promethean darkness,

Frankenstein's monster chained to the rock of the Imagination

his eyes lost to the hungry mouths of ravens.

When suddenly,

Siva steps into the Sky and one feels The entire scene of

Life living life, outside of life, beyond death, out of the womb

one by one --- the place where the flesh of sea side fish

crosses into the vine of tomatos that are

recombining with the flesh of sun burnt cattle, photon by photon,

cell by cell, the power of

civilization itself

assembling in the paint by number death of the perfectly

imperfect transcendental being

There are those times, when a million Adversaries rise

on the Wave of

the Curvature of Space and Time, creating what the Poets call:

History;

strange armies of thought marching into the Temple of Doubt

bringing the Nightmare to boil in wisdom of artificial wisdom

and the blackness of the myth of Consensual Reality.

We witness the Steel and glass, rising and falling.

jazz faced madman tramping across internal cities painted

in the sacred fire of cannibal angels,

whose Footsteps breed beautiful monsters of skin

trapped and lost to themselves in the Unfathomable Beauty of the World

Queens of Starlit Coincidence, the Thunder of the Necrophiliac King eloping

through embryonic apertures on the chariot of a dead god's heart.

From the centuries, a strange pulse. The procession of truth is writing

itself in the flesh of mankind

of blood hungry bullets and blood stained poems,

jabberwocky of coincidence in the convenience store starlight

with the memory of thieves lost in the Las Vegas of her Vagina.

The ghost of Marilyn Monroe rides a Raven's heart through the eternal

zone of War; She spins white noise on the fractal edge of blood.

Her eyes are incandescent fog,

exploding in strange trapezoidal fakirs

through the geometry of the Real.

Her tears are meaningless and tragic, like money falling from a baby's

fingers.

It is all the world can do but rise.

Into the sunlight, cross pollinating the Ultraviolet Alpha with the

infrared shade of the Endless Omega;

As the symphony of human sorrow plays on and on in counterpoint;

sparrows flutter in the city park, the green warmth of the lost hell

trembles

Shangri La oscillates in the folds of her ordinary skin,

while the puzzle of death constructs ghosts in the mysterious absence of

Self.

And then, it happens; She wakes in newborn flesh.

A series of vegetable orchestras curving into martyrdom of

the meat

that dreams.

And he that is she that is he arrives.

Clad in the strange ideation of the undead Future, speaking backwards in a

tunnel of rain and vampires,

breeding lions from her wounded loin,

where only the root of the Baobab tree had once been,

the void of her memory pregnant

with the instantaneous simultaneous --- everything happening all at once,

cascades of the unresolved mystery falling through her flesh as

"Until the stars fall from the sky", she sang.

Until the stars fall from the sky.

and then:

She named him: Vainamoinen.

***

Without warning,

the Gypsy Queen wept thirteen hallelujah's of tear flavored rain

that fell into the soil of her heart

like it was the mouth of an undead lover.

Lazarus, She whispered. Welcome Home.

Inside her brain, which is cleverly hidden inside the Brain of God --- a trillion doors opened between the atoms of a dream lizard's eyes and the neutrinos from the nine versions Alpha Centauri swelling in the tastebuds of the unborn Heaven.

It was all the Goddess could do: gasp and fall into sudden sleep.

Suddenly, ten percent of all animate quarks began rotating clockwise.

SHHSHSHHSHHSHS.

Wooshing skyscrapers blushed in a dusk like

Kryptonite Roses rising up on nodes of the complexity Vine.

The invisible spectrum became a huge roiling heart of a feather laced universe, exploding in meteors of consciousness.

The baby clowns gather in pomengranite tribes, chanting songs of celestial wisdom.

Schisms of starlight permeated the madness of the Pyramid fields of their anti gravity and love.

They juggle each other's bodies in the fire fields of the instantaneous dawn.

Nobody knows what to say to the insane priest anymore; he slipped through the door between atoms chanting the Gypsy Queen's secret name.

Hallelujah, hallelujah: a frog buries a computer under the light

of the Sturgeon eye Moon.

Over and over for -2 millenium, as time broke the Gypsy Queen's heart and the lamp bulbs began to flicker in morse code, singing a saga about the way light itself was made of God's death wish;

the pool of thimbles and rain became wiser and wiser.

It was a normal day, deep in the fever of the mystery of the contagion of human love.

And of the Golden tree hung with poet's skulls, she rarely spoke more than three mystical syllables.

The Tree had long ago disappeared. One night as she wept disconsolate tears, the tree went a- wandering down the road bidding the world farewell, singing a strange song of the daughters of the Watery Graves of Elysium.

But each eternity, shedding flaming pomengranites in the light of the sturgeon moon, after time hooked her by the mouth and lifted her in a series of

Light beams into worlds made of pure technicolor infinity; She began walking the streets throughout what the living beings called the night.

Hour by hour her flesh shed strange portraits, paintings, kinetic machines of her shadow casting chiaroscuro in indelible rhythms down the cobblestone namestones of the city street, down in the visceral vanishing points between the artisan's shops, the used bookstores name after the fears of wandering apple lions.

And as the starlight sang, her footsteps became more lively. On and on she'd carouse, dancing in perfect rhythms with the trillion beams of starlight that only her dead eyes could witness.

One footstep would land her in an Istanbul of Anarchist blasphemy;

Another footstep, light as the moon of her soul, and Shangri La would bloom in her retinas.

Time was a labyrinth. A literal labyrinth. This was not a metaphor. This was not symbolism.

And as She grew in her realization of the Labyrinth of time, the Tree of Poet Skulls appeared, wandering into her world with all the seriousness of a cloud drunk gypsy.

And she danced under it's shade for a thousand years until one night, she collapsed into an unfinished jigsaw puzzle

In which moment by moment, Her own eyes gave birth to the entire universe over and over again, each twirling incarnation stranger, hungrier, more delicate and furious and beautiful than the last.

As winter sang; the sunlight became a strange cat and slipped out from under her skirt.

It was from deep inside an unmailed post card that the Chinese dragons painted fairy tale bells on the horizon of God's love, endless colors reaped from the erotic love poems of sailors drunk on white noise.

***

She cartwheels on a gypsy sunburst into the music box of

unwritten symphonies, her twelve thousand toes

curling in unison onto sapphire pillows of

a pearl of the ruby blueness of a divine hallucination.

On the diamondesque Moon of this Wish of Unfulfilled Wishes,

the Zero Gravity of her Heart

is a time traveling orgasm, linking the music box to a

Chalice of Infinite Regress buried in the drum of Beethoven's left ear.

From deep in the Zenith of the Minuet; dozens of

bodies spiral up meadowy nightmares and

the perpetual laughter of the Scintilla of The Imaginary Eye.

At the End of Time, which is everywhere and nowhere at once --

(perhaps on the edge of Her Nose, where there is nothing but freckles)

the Internet gives birth to the first Unicorn.

Faraway, the Pegasus Laughs.

The Unicorn is unsurprised; it's hooves glow on mercurial temper.

From thousands of lifetimes away, a spidery web of the

chalice of unfinished skin sends a

trillion cosmic codes into the Iris, the Nirvana, while the

Queen of Palindromes is revolving in the Throne

of her always ever-opening Soul.

The window pane of heaven's left cheekbone paints

itself a quantum chi of brainlike flowers.

The brainlike flowers grow ferns and lichens,

burning the palindromes into soft tattooes of the dreamlike

mouth of Christs' love.

Her soul flees into the night on a caravanserai of Turkish kisses,

the blue hot hammers of ten thousand blacksmiths

glowing on the fire fueled anvil of her mouth lost in the whirling of

Infinite Eros.

Love catches her flesh curled in philosophies of the perfect lie.

At the moment of this death, the Queen of Palindromes is

smiling. She enters the Teleportating Womb on the wings of a Fly.

The strange language of godless orchids and stone mouthed

leopards erupts in the garden of the Angelical and Wierd.

One can hear the psychosis pollinating itself

alive, in the dawn.

Whisper. Whisper. Whisper.

Whisper. WHISPER.

Whisper. SHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

The Madness of Love.

A broken soul - machine explodes in the

death-mad heat mystery,

quenching the thirst of the

symbol lions with starlight and feverish intoxicants and the

wisdom of the Paranoia of the Gods.

Every eye is like a raindrop falling into the

mysterious meat field.

Her heart bursts into ten trillion rays of empathy.

A dead man laughed an orgasm of wild

geese trapped in the hot blue lightning of the Lie.

Magnetic fields full of rabid fauns whose eyes

are swollen shut by witch saliva bloom on thrones

of Isis' honey fired tongue;

The newspaper men shriek.

On this plane, the Clock faced bacteria curl as the Queen

locks herself in a series of oceanic waves along

her sleeping fingertips,

bringing the blacksmiths heart to boil like

Lazarus in the dead heat of a bed of kabbalistic

roses.

A voice of everlasting madness! Paralyzed, the

number line is seduced by it's own shadow falling

towards pools of virginal absinthe.

Her heart explodes in perfumed glows and the

radioactive pulse of a strychnine laced apple.

She is the witch, the Queen, the Mother, the Nurse,

the Sleeping Beauty --- of the fabled orchestra of all

prisoners trapped in Solitary Confinement.

She is lurking in the flowery semen of Mankind's

Strange Chalice of Impermanent Love and Light.

On her tongue, swirling with the hummingbirds of

memory, the story of the Shangri La and ecstasy

of permanent death ignites.

Delta wave memories. Alpha- Theta wisdom.

Her flesh is a simple vanity, her pulse a voodoo

of objectivity, the nightmare of the life of

Zero. The void of the fish King's discontinuous

smile.

A refraction of mad pulses; deific doom,

sweltering upon vortices of bewitched grape vines.

And this speech dark star, blackened by whispers --- exhaling

the Wine

of gravity struck vapors, invites the Mother of

the First womb into dwelling in it's cosmic

Shrine of the Starry Shine.

The Queen of Palindromes Chants her own name.

And somewhere on the outskirts of the lost

Suburbia, the Fisher King is converting the atomic

signature of Earthquake Princesses into

nightmares burning like the ecstasy songs of

Gondwanaland.

At dawn, a teacup rattles in a ghosts mouth. Time

churns in the death heave of God's ever evolving

metaphors.

She wakes; her skeleton swallows the fish hook of

the Holy Grail of dark matter.

The castle of God's caged heart drips wicked

electrolytes from the ceiling.

A knight descends from the starlight, landing in

the diamond shaped vulva of fractalline darkness

glowing in the dragon fire of her unfinished eye.

***

At the end of Time, The television flickers ----

a single photon races through the Face of God.

It's a Light Quake! in the Face of God?

The bifurcating Seraphim converge into vortices of hypnotizing darkness;

infinite rivulets of the light beyond the light run

through a trillion virginal neurons.

This thought has never been thought before.

To Escape from the Face of God!!?

Suddenly, in the middle of the post Atomic Night;

a wandering Fairy Tale sneaks from heart to heart.

She is not sleeping. She is not awake.

She is the Priceless Princess with an Inviolable Heart.

Her dreams are knotted

in space - time into curiously two sided

Moebus Loops;

telling stories of the Heartache of Abandoned Millionaires

and the dream life of pomegranates.

There are nimbus clouds tromping in her breath.

Her every footstep trips the land mines of Minkowski Space.

Day after day, on the Boulevard of the Endless Unreal

She explains the Tale the Ancient Comedy to an old man whose

teeth are tombstones of the Vision of Golgotha.

She reveals to her audience of half buried lizards:

He does not understand the Mathematics of Salvation.

He climbs into the Strawberry Moon like it was his lost blue fedora.

There, passing by is a : cadillac full of angels.

They have arrived.

The sun shakes; it is a lepers eyeball.

The moon blushes like a Russian Ballerina in Hell.

One by one, in the Face of the Faceless Girl,

memories of Misery escape through the tree bark

mirror of her inhuman eyes.

The stars fall down around her ankles.

She slips her toes into the pages of the bible.

Her lips are like hieroglyphic angel wings,

fluttering in the sky above the Sea of Galilee.

Christ haunts the clouds like a Shroud of tears,

drifting in perfect solitude through in the eyes

of passing strangers.

A stray dog points it's madness towards the fools who

weep through sightless eyes of cold white rain in the

antechambers of Purgatory.

Night struts by in a silk suit, a corpse of vampires,

rattling with the

bones of carbon based love songs.

The Vampires begin to dance in sheer ecstasy of

freedom and movement of godlike ambitions.

On the dance floor, the mannequin named Maria

suddenly gives birth to a tribe of orphaned

diodes.

The number line writhes like a Pharoahs jugular

vein.

The queen of Zero Probability is born in the vowel

pastures of the codex of Seraphim.

Laughter manifests in the Spiderweb; Lilith's

mouth swells with poisoned tears.

God dresses the beggars wounds in apples and starlight.

Her heart explodes in bombs of the world with

ideas of delusion and power.

The television licks its own face in curls of

blue photons.

On the screen, a ghost seduces the Priest,

pouring over the syllables of his memory as if

they were fallen angels.

The language of God unfurls on a tongue with the

first glimpse her body, suspended naked in the Sky,

surrounded by quarks of the orgasmic cyclotron

cartwheeling through the Ouroborous of Spacetime.

***

On day 23, hour 23, minute 23, second 23 as Psalm 23

begins to swirl with images of God's immaculate perception,

King Solomon appears in a line of hexagram shaped clouds;

and like magic --- from ten million light years away,

a grasshopper of Illuminations gives birth to 23 mathematical axioms

whose beauty is an unbearable monologue of infinity

screamed by a snail from the depths of the mirrored soil,

where the scents of Purgatory rise through the

souls of Orchids bathed in the garden dew.

Eyelids of heaven trickle down in pearls of Hadean opalescence,

suckling strange roots on the ghosts of Godlike synergy.

The Asylum door swings open, revealing faces locked in mythologies

of Madness.

An anonymous red flower, lisping with the incurable disease of love, writes it's name on the bathroom wall of the Asylum.

I enter the room as a biomechanical phantasm.

A skeleton of cellular sadness.

Inside the asylum, the City is composed of broken images;

human beings trapped in identities they do not understand,

speaking words that nobody can hear about ideas that have never been born.

I witness: a woman with three fingers counting the memories of her children in the cafeteria full of delirious spiritual amphibians;

my eyes are antique Italian telescopes, I calculate the pale blue trembling of Saints.

My flesh ignites in the suffering of humanity. The asylum is made complete by two lover's hearts splitting in schisms of rape and the thought of the world trembling in syllables of heat death and murder and the incomplete theories of some drunken and lice infested roadside Galileo.

A crimson shadow chases herself through an incandescent fog made of complex equations.

The woman's name is Maria; she is pregnant with the holy ghost. her skin is the color of trout scales.

She is walking in circles around the asylum day room.

I fantasize about her legs wrapped around my flesh.

The atoms of the dream dash into forest winds of wild abandon.

I become the sunlight; my wound is bloody hydrogen, circling the starlight around her face. She rises from her bed and slips into my soul.

The Asylum is made real, moment by moment, as the ruby mouthed

Cherubim wake from the fields of mortal slumber.

It is early morning. The dawn filters through the curtains in a vast symphony of Easter Time lust.

I watch the honey pouring from mouth to mouth in swallows of desperation.

SHhhhh! A woman, nearly dead--- chanting the love of marmalade in a memory of the Soldier's final curses --- begins to pray.

The room descends through the heart in a pause; the coffee becomes amplified like a tide pool in Heaven.

I shapeshift into a trillion dust motes

and hear the ocean singing pagan madrigals from two hundred miles away.

A seashell laughs; it is the name of God, and nothing less.

The sandpiper tramps across the shore of this wilderness shaped Afterlife.

It is the name of God, writing itself in everything.

The asylum doors swing closed and I am force fed seven pills,

and fall asleep listening to a series of unremitting sobs and screams,

the hallway a goldmine of delusion.

***

In the room of Lucifer's eyelids

Heaven's Choir sings wicked atomic On day 23, hour 23, minute 23, second 23 as Psalm 23

begins to swirl with images of God's immaculate perception,

King Solomon appears in a line of hexagram shaped clouds;

and like magic --- from ten million light years away,

a grasshopper of Illuminations gives birth to 23 mathematical axioms

whose beauty is an unbearable monologue of infinity

screamed by a snail from the depths of the mirrored soil,

where the scents of Purgatory rise through the

souls of Orchids bathed in the garden dew.

Eyelids of heaven trickle down in pearls of Hadean opalescence,

suckling strange roots on the ghosts of Godlike synergy.

The Asylum door swings open, revealing faces locked in mythologies

of Madness.

An anonymous red flower, lisping with the incurable disease of love, writes it's name on the bathroom wall of the Asylum.

I enter the room as a biomechanical phantasm.

A skeleton of cellular sadness.

Inside the asylum, the City is composed of broken images;

human beings trapped in identities they do not understand,

speaking words that nobody can hear about ideas that have never been born.

I witness: a woman with three fingers counting the memories of her children in the cafeteria full of delirious spiritual amphibians;

my eyes are antique Italian telescopes, I calculate the pale blue trembling of Saints.

My flesh ignites in the suffering of humanity. The asylum is made complete by two lover's hearts splitting in schisms of rape and the thought of the world trembling in syllables of heat death and murder and the incomplete theories of some drunken and lice infested roadside Galileo.

A crimson shadow chases herself through an incandescent fog made of complex equations.

The woman's name is Maria; she is pregnant with the holy ghost. her skin is the color of trout scales.

She is walking in circles around the asylum day room.

I fantasize about her legs wrapped around my flesh.

The atoms of the dream dash into forest winds of wild abandon.

I become the sunlight; my wound is bloody hydrogen, circling the starlight around her face. She rises from her bed and slips into my soul.

The Asylum is made real, moment by moment, as the ruby mouthed

Cherubim wake from the fields of mortal slumber.

It is early morning. The dawn filters through the curtains in a vast symphony of Easter Time lust.

I watch the honey pouring from mouth to mouth in swallows of desperation.

SHhhhh! A woman, nearly dead--- chanting the love of marmalade in a memory of the Soldier's final curses --- begins to pray.

The room descends through the heart in a pause; the coffee becomes amplified like a tide pool in Heaven.

I shapeshift into a trillion dust motes

and hear the ocean singing pagan madrigals from two hundred miles away.

A seashell laughs; it is the name of God, and nothing less.

The sandpiper tramps across the shore of this wilderness shaped Afterlife.

It is the name of God, writing itself in everything.

The asylum doors swing closed and I am force fed seven pills,

and fall asleep listening to a series of unremitting sobs and screams,

the hallway a goldmine of delusion. apostasies

through the eyes of nine trillion death defying buddhas.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,

drifts into the ether of a Greek heat, and begins to whisper the lost minuet of his Mother sweetest well wishes.

Thirteen Olympian Gods,

buried in the sleeping skin of newborn beings, open---

transform the emptiness of their Godlike flesh into the

world of concrete buildings running in purple hues of the

ambrosia of endless neurotransmitting vesicles.

Suddenly, the moment the clock begins to spin; the events inside his brain immediately correspond with the events of the world around him.

It happens faster than time.

Everything becomes everything else. The brain conjures itself.

He imagines a spider, and it crawls through the door.

His eyes are like

Tahitian blueberries, bleeding lovestruck mermaids into the heat field of boiling magic.

A neurochemical fire pauses under his skull; patterns of information sweep between the starlight and his crown of Thorns.

The sky grows thick and rich with birdsong.

The sound of nectar drips up into the goose down moon.

Synchronicity tricks the Universe into overwhelming interdependence. The connection between 0 and 1 is severed by a renegade decimal point.

One by one, the patterns intersect in seething fractal edges of perceptual dissonance.

Neurons dangle from the treetops of the rainforest canopy.

The new Gods, outside of Infinity are being

built by the algae of heaven,

assembled by the strange thoughts in the rainforest

excrement of a tribe of two toed sloths.

***

In the Mystery of the lost whirl, blooming with dark octagonal rhodopsin synergies,

her eye billows into witch prayers,

burning streams of photon, bifurcating in the turbulent manifolds of unbroken membranes,

until in the deepest uncertainty available

a strange ghost trembles, spilling dreams into her unborn capillaries.

The flesh of all dying Gods balances under the starlit echo chamber of her blood.

Quarks of Woman's eggshell speckled skin sing; the Universe pulses sleepily blue.

A sapphire scintilla emanates from the eyes of the inverse Heaven,

spinning incomprehensible patterns of ancient bardic consciousness into a nested field churning with the daydreams of acorns.

On Golgotha, she exhales a single tear;

in the alleyway, she sleeps tangled in a nest of mathematical fire.

On Alpha Centauri, she is the Embryo of God.

The quintessential imaginary breath,

a single whisper rises on thermodynamic rubies.

Light boxes the name of God into ___________.

The Streets of Manhattan seethe with the consciousness of sanitation workers.

above a vented manhole, chiaruscuro lisps into translucent fogs and thermals of endless starvation.

Pigeon feathers drown in the neon sign above her head. Her feet are candelabras of the still point.

*

The neon sign, blooming in the penumbral jowls of that Mad dead man whose flesh moves on curves without Moving, advertises only the Second Coming of Christ.

It is all she can do not to die into the death of her own laughing.

Temples of gypsy bones sprout in the sidewalk under her feet. The strange attractor of death ripples in the fractal thunderstorms of her DNa.

High above the last atom of her skull, punctuated constellations self organize into ancient alien dream scriptures.

This is the beginning of time. She detects memories of some unknowable entity rehearsing something in her skin.

***

On the edge of her face, her mouth curves into a watering hole of amino acids dreaming of worlds beyond amino acids.

Her soul leaps across the breakfast table; is this Paradise alley?

Once, there was a map --- a series of permutations of the labyrinth. Threads like her Grandmothers hair,

falling from the blue sky in empty cycles of incomplete strangeness.

***

It has never been like this before. Her mouth is a bomb of exploding verbs of transcendental madness.

Ammonia drips from the root of her sacred tongue.

Lost wizards hunt cherubim & blood breathing dragons in the purple swells of her ever expanding bellybutton.

She has become the cosmological rage of the Goddess Minerva

balanced in the endless schisms rippling in human spinal cords.

Imaginary numbers bathe in the winged corpses of her daydreams.

Wave after wave, her Goddess' womb is tattooed in ghastly Empyrean fires of broken memories.

An unending crest of complex equations anoints itself in the fire of her sex fueled despair.

Over and over, clouds with alien eyes mount her swollen flesh with flames of the Emerald Hell's ultimate desire.

Three variables of the divine hallucination surrender to her souls, declaring themselves as spies for God.

Broken teacups hover above the Seattle skyline.

It rains communion wine.

God's face ignites in a hallowed ballet of living symbols. White noise bathes golden dolphins in a splash of sudden blue torpor.

She becomes the universe cradling life in a spectrum of unfinished reality;

xylophones unite in Mixolodian treble. The molecules of her heart gallop like Lady Godiva,

quavering in the calculus of the caduceus of the underworld.

Virgin laughter reverses the polarity of her imagination.

It is all She can do but open her eyes into the endless Starlight,

where

the Gods have written her name in the dark spaces where nothingness Is.

***

The human soul blooms in twelve sides of

Sisyphean necromancy.

A white winged witch rises; She is a soap bubble in the blue dish of the ocean.

The open eyed Ouija board howls the I Ching to a marigold in the cracked sidewalks of Manhattan;

a madman pauses on the steps of St. Patrick Cathedral.

Wildflowers pulse in his female id, transposing the symphony of aphids into colors of unimaginable fury.

The abyss grows clear, like an Opium thieves memory under the gaze of the Infinite Sphinx.

Neutrons chant the expanding history of God's deepest listening. Van Gogh's mouth hovers like a poisonous spaceship over some sugar coated Las Vegas. Troglodyte prayers rotate in the lungs of passing seraphim.

It is long after death, light years before rebirth.

The museum of dreams self organizes in improbable heresies around still points the color of Judges' teeth.

Golden frequencies illuminate the illusion of deadly nightshade in a garden grown wild with flaming Witch ovaries.

Flesh by flesh, the Universe undresses the hearts of ten trillion Sybils in the heat field of a hermaphroditic seers floridly conflagrated imagination.

A word gasps for breath on a liar lips. The legend of Galahad tramps in the dark soil of the mandrake steamed human brain.

In the emptiness of time, ten trillion human voices raise a flame of katydid magic on whitecaps trembling with bioluminescent poet tears.

Each note of consciousness, the paralysis of human tears, grows stronger and stranger and more distant than the echoes of the silent maw of eternity murmuring the first Mother nameless name in the void.

Time freezes in birth cartoons of white noise chanced at the gates of the mouth of an imperfect rose. A single thorn pricks Christ forehead.

The mouth of an ancient divinity harbors the breath of dusks leopardine mystery.

Exhale.

***

The Self Assembling God of Unfinished Explanations has arrived

disguised as a piece of birthday cake,

deep inside the Architecture of Impermanence and Mystery.

One by one, wild guesses flock like imaginary geese in the throat songs of heaven;

point by point, the still point of the paradox (with ten trillion apocalypses in every moment)

paints itself crimson and blue,

hurricanes of endless thought slipping through the skin

of the extraterrestrial priestess.

A sudden cruel hush of electromagnetic hysteria

erupts on the African Savannah.

The Yawn of God ignites in the wildebeest's shadow.

The vision is of diamonds and fire. Strange children erupting in

laughter at the edge of dusk.

A tramp bathed in fire is circling the void in a strange drizzle of extraterrestrial light.

The stars are like question marks, arriving in Cadillacs of deep red and ultraviolet wisps of fleshy temptation.

God. God. Go. God. GO. Go.

Life is molecular razzle dazzle, a riddle within an enigma

asking itself how it begin?

Rubies die in unquiet puzzles of darkness. Emeralds leap toward the belly of the moon.

The prayers of the wicked lift like love songs into the ears of the Confessor.

Amidst the lilies of the field, the laughter of unborn sparrows crushes the hearts of the dead.

They laugh.

The ghosts of Paris lift into the sky, invoking the membrane potential of it's own spiritual birth like the curl of roses and thorns.

The skeleton of God is born. Eyes forged flesh by the hammer of Time striking on the Anvil of Space.

Her flesh rains down in pixels and microdots.

Her voice becomes a network of dissonant memories. Her neurons flooded the stars with memories of an the young woman's favorite hour,

gathered in the fireplace, listening to the sound of the rain.

Her eyes run down the star gate like dice thrown into the guilt ridden fire.

Together, they paused in the deepest orgasm of memory.

Night after night, the dream of heaven melts sad light

into the icy nightmare of absolute motionless motion.

As the queen of endless Consequence, her heart traps Hamlet deep inside the belly of a wandering thought star.

Night into word, word into ear, ear into soul; the vagabond is the mouth of the undreamt God, sweeping crushed mathematical silences into the strange unholy menageries of the Oracle inside her Neurons.

***

A night bird quivering;

itself into life, living in the blueness of the stained glass window.

A Queen anointed the Bell of her head in

twelve octaves of non local chrysanthemum portents.

She slipped into her own skin, like a whirlpool slipping into the ocean.

Moment by moment, the room was polarized into being and non being.

The cathedral echoed with a dead priest's Proton / Neutron / Electron Shell sermon.

From deep inside the inviolable heart of madness,

as they slept in the Texas asylum,

a crucifix marched down Commerce Street,

carrying an old man toward the river,

where his memories would stir the world into great pangs of incomprehensible

suffering and unforgivable love.

At night, the strange flock of birds with eyes like wicked gamblers landed on the banks of the river.

Golden orbs; faceless women; supermodels walking with Cyclopean Riverboat Gamblers;

until the Prophets opened the mouth of a downtown mannequin;

laughter like the exploding syntax of heaven,

a codex of languages beyond the spectrum of ordinary Sound.

And in the schizoid cortex, a macabre ballet of probability and chance!

Brownian motion erupts amongst the molecules of a series of ideas and thoughts,

like ballerinas balanced on the event horizon;

God is waiting to happen.

A single painted face falls in a spiral down from the ceiling; Michelangelo calculates the triumph of his wounded eyes.

It is enough to turn the plurality of "Gods" into a singular "God".

The unification of all possible divinities; a crucifix, a rubicon of infinite egress;

single point, the exit wound of death, the heresy of the singularity.

She turned towards the cage. And saw Lucifer smiling through the glass. His eyes were violet Spanish windowpanes.

She listened for a heartbeat. There were trillions, syncopated and timed to

the pulsing of the Sparrow's purple chromosomes.

The mannequin turned it's head toward the sky, began swallowing clouds of human paranoia. It was a miracle of the passion of strangeness;

Degree by degree, a brand new Cloud of Swallowing Birds erupted from the field of all becoming.

The stained glass window of the Lost Cathedral ---

shed blueness into indigo, the lost notes of the Choir

landed on the Empty skull at Zenith, and within aeons ---

the Universe began to grow winged roses,

each speaking to each the tongueless speech

of thunderclouds in the alchemist's eyes,

revealing thirteen raindrops of the Ouroboros and the Quell.

***

Deep in her skin, the Number line shifts to the edge of the World.

Strange fields of potatoes, cotton, Zeros and Ones, electrons -- ghosts, elements, whirlwinds --- lost human faces, identity states -- ripple from the eastern fields of primordal magic to the manifestations of the still point locked in the inner sanctum of her skull.

Over and over, She reveals to herself: the inside is the outside.

The Universe is a mirror that is breaking, over and over again.

The entire pagan pantomime has ended in a brilliant flourish of a Game of Chess at the end of History.

Moment by moment the heart of God plays it's strange gambit: amnesiac pawns. Psychotic Knights. Bishops lost in retrograde spin. Rooks broken and shattered by the gravity of Time.

King to King; the chess board becomes a vortex of unfinished thought.

At the edge of her casket, which is everywhere:

Foreign smiles erupt on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea;

the dolphins of her heart leap through the landscape of water and golden bells.

The bells ring like the Voice of Seraphim. Over and over,

strange tones of whirling waves.

The Ocean whispers illusions of the love making of the Sorcerer buried in her eyes.

Her tongue licks the clouds as it rains, strange minuets of unbecoming.

She bears witness against the theory of the square root of -1.

A Djinn leaps from her bellybutton.

The love song of God lures God through God's antithetical paradox, like thread through the eye of a needle a million vortices wide.

In the eyes of the Psychotic Leviathan, lurking in the faces of the audience;

She traced the rhythm of God's ultimate Godlike Heresy; until

the theory of Lucifer's confession spiraled out of control,

like a series of sobbing women with broken hearts and bloody faces, bombed by the crimes of the War and trapped in the fine print of the newspaper.

For ten trillion years, the Old Gods sang an insane conclusion:

the bullets of the Eternal War are shaped like the tears of the Insane God.

Bullets like teardrops.

Bullets like teardrops.

The three combinations of tragedy, comedy and love? They wore their human flesh into the mystery of reality.

Tragedy laughed; comedy wept. Mystery turns silent.

Twelve times in twenty three minutes; leaving one minute alone in the corner, weeping like an orphan on the edge of the Universe,

A strange schism erupts on the cyclic madness of the Adversary of Man.

Steel and Glass rose and tumbled through the zephyr of her breath.

The nocturnal madman of dissonance and jazz whispered preternatural onomatopoeia through the eyeballs of a God that no longer believes in itself.

She was Daydreaming on the rooftops of the World;

Skulls bathed in curvatures of flesh darkened by cities whose children are being made intangible by windswept conversations about the sex life of Archangels and the

dream world of Mountain gorillas playing over and over again, like the memory of Sisyphus in the bowels of the convenience store.

Thundering disbelief, like a faceless face from the Watchers outside of time.

A broken mirror reassembles in her star borne eyes.

And then? And then. And then: Nothing happened.

***

And it was then, at the moment of greatest uncertainty,

that the Great Sleeping Madman

Pablo Picasso;

unannounced an inconsolate weeping

from deep within the smooth mirrored surface of his Mouth,

the language of God in a discotheque, a grave of still living Priests

singing his twelve million reincarnations into the Infinite Light;

when the Square Apostles arrived, carrying circular eggs

like the fists of the Sailors of Atlantis

Tangents of Archangels bathe Greek fire of the Summer time sun

until Cadillacs like the Ghost of Secretariat

ripple in a triangular Eye.

Red hearts nurses purple wounds.

Yellow strikes a match in the Emergency Room.

Blueness scoops an ice cream.

throngs of green beings with multiple faces burn into

winter roses.

A carnival of strange silvers ignites on the sidewalk

Kurt Godel issues Godot a Speeding ticket into the cubist madhouse.

The dream of light unexplained?

Century of the Ghost Asylum, haunting

the quiet point in this human heart.

A whisper. A buzz. A rush of upward senses.

Something has happened.

***

The Pendulums of Mystery, swinging in cycles of the

endless upward spiral,

the perpetual motion of the fist, the Sculpting of Time

from Space, in the anti gravity

permutations of God's unimaginable strangeness---

when the Garden of the Light

suddenly self organized around the Jewel Trees

the heart of the Universe broke into bifurcating mysteries ... The ...

Them . . .

in that fabled history of the spectral dream:

the climactic egress of the love cycle of the Pantheon,

her heart beat coiled, colliding with itself in twelve hemiquavers;

manifesting in thousands of non local locations simultaneously.

Ten trillion anonymous incarnations. Myth. Motion.

The wild sickness of Non Being, uncurable ---

In an instantaneous curl of phosphorescent wilderness,

her mouth flickered like an Alien Goddess golden tongue

above a carnival of Mimes

lost in central Kansas.

Her eyes hovered like naked phantasms

illuminating the light bulbs of Grand Central Station.

Her fingers stroked strange empyrean fires on Christian born

violins in Mecca.

One version of herself began chasing magical bears in Siberia.

There were no answers. There never will be answers.

Just reason and rhyme and the strange soliloquy of questions.

Another child

laughed from inside the eye of a velvet bumblebee.

Tears fell like the laughter of the biblic Prophets

locusts and wild honey. The eyes of Light moving into Light.

Three thousand nine hundred and twenty seven

versions of her 97th Chromosome

suddenly crested in the blue eyes of men

whose eyes had suddenly died to meaning.

A heart broke. A dream burst. The world?

A Ouija board lifted into the living room. Who knows what next?

The Sky became unlocked in the space between Souls,

ferns and lichens began reporting love stories of God,

tear by tear, instant replay of the Infinite Regress.

Her skin flooded with the adrenaline of nonsense.

She began to count through a field of endless Zeros and Ones.

And roses.

The disciples of love appeared disguised as a school of silver fish that swam

through astral lattices towards the place She slept

and she slept. And slept. And the sleep

tasted like birth. Salt and Creation fire.

Until she found the place where there was only

starlight, humming and whirring, jungles and gardens

and the sounds of birds being born.

She breathed in every one of her own deaths, becoming

each moment less real than the moment before.

Some nameless something slipped between Quarks of the Real.

a swarm of Ghosts appeared in the Wilderness of Her opening Eyes.

***

Two perfect strangers kissing

the wounded God in each other's eyes

light catacombs of innocence

where become the starry ghosts of love

And they walk into sleep ---- giving birth

to unborn monsters -- locked in flesh --- eyeless, mouthless

in their own ventriloquist urge,

where the flowers gasp

in astonishment at the boredom of

the Angels ---

the heartlessness of Dr. God appearing in a sunlit bruise,

needles and mystery, pills and retribution,

the Second Coming reoccurs every moment

as the strange trees howl at

something laughing at the explosions in your left ear,

prayers of Armaggedon murmured at the breakfast table

where the mouth drops crumbs of biscuits

for the Wicked Witch to analyze, like the fecal droppings of Puppets ---

and with the last incarnation

of St. John the Divine;

we Watch as the Doctor unwinds his veins

and places them in the hands of the

Asylum Priest. A fetus hides in the splintered paint.

The man with the permanent erection is waiting to have his nerves sliced.

Down the hallway, where the butterflies leap from Monet's

xeroxed buttocks,

She drifts to earth in a million strange senses.

Screaming of some dying Jazz singer,

as her skull --- lurks above the the clouds,

on the asylum rooftop full of Secret Elves

ticking in the clockwork of unrequited

love.

She saw the color Blue bathe pink in D minor

while climbing Jakob's stairwell.

Leather straps, a series of Gasses ;

the admonition: SIT STILL. LAY DOWN.

DON'T MOVE.

Her eyes like a tongue of Parisian Fairies,

plumbed the taste buds of an Orange in the Catacombs,

where --- with a flicker of their serpentine strobes

She'd listen to the thieves sleeping in the snowflakes of Time

curled, like embryos, around the Pearl of Fool's Gold

and as she crawled from dimension to dimension

with the satellite dish of her skin opening like a Circus Tent

Her heart detected the pulsing lies of song drunk crickets,

from twelve miles away.

For her, the universe was a temple of infinite words

that sang of uranium burning in the cathedral of Christ's

haunted skin. Where the wounds glow on the blacksmith's hammer,

and Every moment is a explosive turn of the Eternal curves of

the Human Eye

She wants to be the Christ.

She dreams of Lucifer swimming through her veins.

She sends love poems to the trillions of dying beings,

lost in light and darkness, running from the future,

in negation of the aeons past.

And every day her senses multiply.

their acuity, shivers,

One by one, the conversations complexified around her.

Strangers tongues knotted in disbelief at her spiritual madness.

Her heart became a rainbow of Genetic Code;

Her frontal cortex was a supercomputer rainforest,

full of mud and the binary code of strange monkey hunting lizards,

licking their way into judgment of hunger and the grace of life

in treetops painted like Van Gogh's eyes, in the endless motion

of the Madness of God

Every moment, the world responded to her every secret wish.

She became gigantic, her probability field extending for miles in every direction.

Coughing strangers alerted her to shifts in her mood.

A passing bird became her Mother's wisdom.

Life was beyond erratic. Life was beyond control. Life was a spontaneous transmission of the divine

Through flesh made from endless mysterious chain reactions.

She watched as two fire ants struggled like gladiators over a crumb of chocolate.

She threw them at the sun, and wept for days. There was no escaping the cataclysmic nightmare of her own immortal power.

Suddenly, She laughed. Like Shakespeare on his way to the Grave, and

in that moment, the River itself lifted into heaven on the wings

of a a katydid bathed in the hologram at the Beginning of Time.

***

Enzymes of eternity whirl in the Oceans where zig zag Ziggurats

fill with Japanese seahorses at the bottom of

the Sea of Infinitely Complex: Haiku.

The tongue of the abyss swishes through the blue mouth of God,

licking an old salted wound.

Sea by sea, the nightmare gallops on hooves of Mother of Pearl.

Across the cresting white foam, the unfinished languages of

antedeluvian Octopi elope along strange tentacles

seeding the flesh of sunbeam colored angels with words

heavy as astronaut footprints.

Apokeokastasis energizes the dream of the Dreamer.

To the stars: Ad astra, ad astra, chant the Locusts inside the Nautilus Shell.

Carpe Nocturne. Seize the Night. Poets:

Let the moon explode, like the wedding cake of Saints;

on your tongue.

Orchestrated fantasias escape her skin in polka dots of condensation, spiraling into the almost god faced clouds;

Moment by moment the night explodes into powers beyond the threshold of

comprehension. The God faced clouds are calling her name.

thunder blesses these strange miniature moons,

as they fall through the autumn sky

like the eyes of some fluorescent machine --

every moment, the night is sinking into the consciousness of owls gathering around her bluish cheekbones.

She's sleeping in the eggshell of her own skin,

poised like Aphrodite on the edge of the sand. There are sea lions

sundancing in the green twilight of her every pose.

Those Greek plumed eyelids rise on crests of sugary bone.

Skeleton by skeleton,

the pirate Ships turn into the wind of her voice --- revealing

cerebral gravestones, seashells of the dying world whirling under her feet; they sing forgotten names.

She feels the deadness of crushed dandelions licking

the fingerprints of her toes.

The night descends on the horizon like a newborn machine.

There are seven eagles balanced in the sky.

they howl strange lullabies of eyries, legends of their feathered plumes ---

the Tales of the Sioux, the Blackfoot ---

igniting strange

volcanic torrents of excitation,

moonshaped moons bathe in the god faced clouds

whirling across strange oceans painted in light of

the stained glass windows of the

monastery on the Other Side of the World.

The whispering Salt of the Wine Dark Sea

floods the heart of the

Eagles, the Monks ---

with a strange blue hypnosis.

Whirlpools of oxygen oscillate. The Night Clouds chant

the legend of the Kalevala.

Over, through the Hyperborean Night

The mirrored faces roll through the sky,

changing everything on their way into the starry sky.

The eyelids of this unfinished Nirvana ---

are prisons of the Vampire apocalypse.

Genies circle the sky on carousels of magic carpets.

There are God faced clouds, turning violent

in the starry sky,

bringing the thoughts of the Other world

into strange magnetic boil.

Blackness ignites in kaleidoscopic madness under her skin.

On the coast of her swollen libido, the night has led a thousand sea sick sailors

to crash into her skin, like dolphins beaching themselves on the Sand Castles of MIdnight's fire drunk beach.

a piano swims inside the tide

Her spine, curled in a ribbon like a candlewick poised on the edge of a trillion futile hallucinations, ignites in a flame of symbolic logic.

The symbols erupt in boolean whispers.

The whispers dissolve

like Spirit of God on an angel's wings.

From the depths of the wine blue sea, a single point of light sweeps from the heart of a guitarist trapped in a watery grave, a love song poised on his lips.

The world loses it capacity to understand anything at all.

Crescendos of prayer roll through this moment. It is history. Every moment, here in the Fable of the Disturbing Night,

the language curls off the lips,

burning martyrs of the perpetual crucifixion

that invade the consciousness of northern stars

until the light Dreams oscillate like the gills of star faring sailfish.

In the lost logic of heaven's

unknowable name; words float like ocelots,

racing on horned feet across the sea of unfinished prayers.

Cell by cell, isocahedrons full of Prisoners eyes burst in embryos of Boolean logic;

suddenly, as her nostrils flare into wild orgasms of breath, time bending hummingbirds channel Egyptian divinities through mouths painted by empty painters fists,

punching the human soul into paroxysms of perfect pointillism.

Slaves of the first and last machine sing recombining chromosomes into the open wound of Michaelangelo's paint fueled lungs.

In his heart of exploding probability; the phantasmagoria of the Interior World of Angels --- rising and falling on crests of human bone ---

begins to become real.

Molecule by molecule,

Amoebas trip into the fingertips of God

churning a million differential equations

into whirlpools of living beings.

and on the edge of the dawn,

where her face falls into the Sea:

the whiskers of the first cat

burst with madmen, into the blue light of

the Alphabet of Unfinished Questions

***

Enzymes of eternity whirl in the Oceans where zig zag Ziggurats

fill with Japanese seahorses at the bottom of

the Sea of Infinitely Complex: Haiku.

The tongue of the abyss swishes through the blue mouth of God,

licking an old salted wound.

Sea by sea, the nightmare gallops on hooves of Mother of Pearl.

Across the cresting white foam, the unfinished languages of

antedeluvian Octopi elope along strange tentacles

seeding the flesh of sunbeam colored angels with words

heavy as astronaut footprints.

Apokeokastasis energizes the dream of the Dreamer.

To the stars: Ad astra, ad astra, chant the Locusts inside the Nautilus Shell.

Carpe Nocturne. Seize the Night. Poets:

Let the moon explode, like the wedding cake of Saints;

on your tongue.

Orchestrated fantasias escape her skin in polka dots of condensation, spiraling into the almost god faced clouds;

Moment by moment the night explodes into powers beyond the threshold of

comprehension. The God faced clouds are calling her name.

thunder blesses these strange miniature moons,

as they fall through the autumn sky

like the eyes of some fluorescent machine --

every moment, the night is sinking into the consciousness of owls gathering around her bluish cheekbones.

She's sleeping in the eggshell of her own skin,

poised like Aphrodite on the edge of the sand. There are sea lions

sundancing in the green twilight of her every pose.

Those Greek plumed eyelids rise on crests of sugary bone.

Skeleton by skeleton,

the pirate Ships turn into the wind of her voice --- revealing

cerebral gravestones, seashells of the dying world whirling under her feet; they sing forgotten names.

She feels the deadness of crushed dandelions licking

the fingerprints of her toes.

The night descends on the horizon like a newborn machine.

There are seven eagles balanced in the sky.

they howl strange lullabies of eyries, legends of their feathered plumes ---

the Tales of the Sioux, the Blackfoot ---

igniting strange

volcanic torrents of excitation,

moonshaped moons bathe in the god faced clouds

whirling across strange oceans painted in light of

the stained glass windows of the

monastery on the Other Side of the World.

The whispering Salt of the Wine Dark Sea

floods the heart of the

Eagles, the Monks ---

with a strange blue hypnosis.

Whirlpools of oxygen oscillate. The Night Clouds chant

the legend of the Kalevala.

Over, through the Hyperborean Night

The mirrored faces roll through the sky,

changing everything on their way into the starry sky.

The eyelids of this unfinished Nirvana ---

are prisons of the Vampire apocalypse.

Genies circle the sky on carousels of magic carpets.

There are God faced clouds, turning violent

in the starry sky,

bringing the thoughts of the Other world

into strange magnetic boil.

Blackness ignites in kaleidoscopic madness under her skin.

On the coast of her swollen libido, the night has led a thousand sea sick sailors

to crash into her skin, like dolphins beaching themselves on the Sand Castles of MIdnight's fire drunk beach.

a piano swims inside the tide

Her spine, curled in a ribbon like a candlewick poised on the edge of a trillion futile hallucinations, ignites in a flame of symbolic logic.

The symbols erupt in boolean whispers.

The whispers dissolve

like Spirit of God on an angel's wings.

From the depths of the wine blue sea, a single point of light sweeps from the heart of a guitarist trapped in a watery grave, a love song poised on his lips.

The world loses it capacity to understand anything at all.

Crescendos of prayer roll through this moment. It is history. Every moment, here in the Fable of the Disturbing Night,

the language curls off the lips,

burning martyrs of the perpetual crucifixion

that invade the consciousness of northern stars

until the light Dreams oscillate like the gills of star faring sailfish.

In the lost logic of heaven's

unknowable name; words float like ocelots,

racing on horned feet across the sea of unfinished prayers.

Cell by cell, isocahedrons full of Prisoners eyes burst in embryos of Boolean logic;

suddenly, as her nostrils flare into wild orgasms of breath, time bending hummingbirds channel Egyptian divinities through mouths painted by empty painters fists,

punching the human soul into paroxysms of perfect pointillism.

Slaves of the first and last machine sing recombining chromosomes into the open wound of Michaelangelo's paint fueled lungs.

In his heart of exploding probability; the phantasmagoria of the Interior World of Angels --- rising and falling on crests of human bone ---

begins to become real.

Molecule by molecule,

Amoebas trip into the fingertips of God

churning a million differential equations

into whirlpools of living beings.

and on the edge of the dawn,

where her face falls into the Sea:

the whiskers of the first cat

burst with madmen, into the blue light of

the Alphabet of Unfinished Questions

***

A single Poet's Tree of radiant blue illuminations growing like the dirty jokes of Zeus deep inside the electron flower bed of his brain, laughed, shaking the heart of the ancientVegetable Queen.

Flames flooded the Queen's fleshy green chalice with the night of Wild Intuitions.

Rivers of Vines spill into the Moonlight, their tributaries overflowing with capillaries of chlorophyll --- eating the sunshine, spilling their guts into the hearts of the berry eating Bears.

The berries rose up from the consciousness of the Creatrix, speaking nine million languages, talking freely of the love pangs of God.

The squirrels died and became acorns and the acorns were born again and became the eyes of the squirrels.

The eyes of the squirrels were churches full of infinite Buddhas where one praying mantis howled vectors of probability across the field where the Hindu God Brahma lay sleeping.

The entire forest was lisping with absolute madness. Stuttering with beauty, the chocolatey abyss of soil and golden teacup faced insects named their tiny love struck children after creations greatest mystery:

Silence.

A lone leaf fell, licking the sunbeams on it's way down into the nest of a hollow log.

It conjured up rainbows ofsalvation, each a stranger shade of the toothless smile of the Goddess than the next.

Suddenly, the Queen of Lovers slipped into her skin and knew: infinity isthe world of Light.

Light. It created her as she created it in the Cathedral of her Perceptions.

She sang for ten trillion eons of the lilting yellows.

The strange black rainbow of widowed moons coded in the

sunlight flooding the forest floor.

Color. She knocked on Blue's Russian window. She grasped Red's everlasting shadow.

She nodded in a Purple prison made real by Pink's bewitching insanity.

Everything in that day began to know the strength of it's own miracles.

The Goddess' fingers slipped like strange thieves, lifting the lids off of the coffins of the dead, revealing night after night of endless spiritual gold.

Silver smiles tripped through mercurial embers into the slipstream of an owl's heart.

Pearls of Soul, forged by wicked ghosts whose teeth shined like piranhas in the Infinity of the Unreal.

And the forest grew rich with death and birth. The mystery was never known, ever present, yet always an event to be sought.

The mystery was: To die, to live, to recreate the Miracle of You.

To flutter into the soil like a butterfly pirouettes into heaven.

On the edge of these outlandish whirling whispers: the forest sighed, and a strange thing, resembling the dream of humankind fell out of the trees and onto the solid ground and the night was made holy and sacred and then: strange, strangely forever.

***

Angel's eyes, ripe like pomegranates. A Series of Infinite Verbs.

They turn wild, naked like the first Eden, charged with chaos and

the memory of uncertain genocides,

where eyeless men engage in deep philosophical nightmares

ten thousand molecules deep into his bloodstream.

Undreamable armies swell in the fields of shadows slipping up through the ground from the blind roaring of the "Roman Wilderness of Pain".

Prayer after prayer fuels the strange wind,

lifting flocks of birds into the deep Greek Ether.

One by one, the Verbs break into the Universe.

And as if in answer to these cosmological prayers, the Dead Queen's hair blooms with the neon whirling spikes of the deep sea anemone.

On the ocean floor, a vagina is born.

Murmurs twitch in shadows of the great beast that slouches on the crests of ocean waves.

God escapes through puzzles of human flesh

growing like Sailors' souls in the logic of the underworld.

The universe open's it's wings into the soreness of lost love, every star suddenly bathed in a monsoon of the transcendent death defying logic.

Her eyes: they are trembling UFO's full of future paranoia;

the prayers of freedom seeking convicts,

the confessions of post - psychotic nuns,

the hopes of a Priest on the verge of ten million re-incarnations

every tongue trembling like the drum of the lunatics

under her skin. Her face is a prison.

The Verbs are escaping, running in crazy freedoms outside of anyone's control.

Her whispers are bottled Ships, sent into the Afterlife, containing only those souls that have escaped Heaven and have

landed like Columbus, in the India of her flesh.

And in this golden truth machine, as the language of the jeweled illusions falls through the abyss in perfect magic---

a green earth turns it's eye toward's the subterranean light

of the Vagina on the Ocean Floor.

Starlight falls like the pollen of a Utopian neurosis.

A blue eyed woman in a skirt designed by faceless magicians turns on her heel toward a sky infected with white noise and boomerang faced sparrows.

Deep in the star spangled night, a king dies during his first kiss. The angels in the courtyard multiply in grotesque gambits

across a chess board of monstrously meaningless

parables.

Salvation is instantaneous and eternally irreversible.

The bodies of madmen circle the sky in haloes of golden superstitions.

The summertime sky is full of clouds that charge the night with epitaphs on poets tombstones.

Every moment is more imaginary than the next.

The mothership ascends into the Face of God through the pores of human skin.

***

The future Fantasia;

--- a chimera of consciousness --- the infinite simultaneity

of freedom; the Creation of Creation,

who pollinated the Sky, brought the Sea into the Sunlight

whirling with a flock of time travelling neutrinos ---

She is alive, bathed in liquid crystal, negative entropy holograms,

binary code hidden in butterfly;s wings.

and was hysterical with the living God's love,

and ran through Heaven sparkling with the jeweled facets of the cobra mouth

flickering above a convenience store in a storm of perfect coincidence

above the place where the roots of civilization

were strangling off in a desperate denouement

of paralysis and torpor; She, the Goddess of the

Fulcrum of Time, had illuminated the poet's heart,

and for a trillion instantaneous simultaneities,

the triple faced eyes of the moon mermaids sipping Tea

as the Ocean

wept the pagan melodies,

Greek myths buried themselves in the newspaper

until Gondwanaland was

crawling with Fairy Queens,

whose wings of bioluminescent skin lifted,

whirling and being born again and again in a never ending

dream ---

Through the mad babble of stories spilling up

from the mouth of mankind -

igniting wisterias with poppy smoke in the throat

of summer's dolphin eyed angels.

And suddenly: the machines died.

Electricity quit flowing. The Sky became blue, the

night Stars --- an endless tropic holiness ofg

Old men weeping trances of mathematical data.

Machine gun fire died in the night.

Civilization stirred like the eye of a hurricane force wind of blasphemy

And in the dead god's self loathing lie,

balanced in the space above the Eternal City of an echo chamber brain,

a neurological virus flooded the earth and sent

humanity back into the divine geometrical urge;

Cerebellum after cerebellum emptied the Invasion of the

Machines into the Post- Industrial Jungle,

every neutron of every broken resistor

began singing, burning like Lucifer's lungs

with the strange light the Great Green Vegetable Heaven,

until in the last moment, a white bird swept it's face toward the sun

and She (the She that remained alive) --- bathed in the zephyr of

negative entropy --- and swept weeping

into perfect fugue and fantasy as her lovers --

the trillions upon trillions, and one unborn God

--- began to arrive like famous memories

into portraits of the Children found swirling in the Genesis of her own

pregnant heart.

The Angel was born at the End of Time.

***

A mysterious verb races in curves of cubist oddness

through the exquisite cadaver of the human heart;

in a blur of psychedelia and perilous enchantment of words beyond words

with no meaning,

the verb, the word, moves out of her brain and

ignites the forges of creation in the whirling chance

of wild electrons pooling on the edge of the bulls eye of

her Guernica face.

Tar pits begin to pool around the psychotic ballerinas.

Ten million human guns scream in futile apocalyptic cruelty.

Thunder ignites on the candlewick of a blind man's optic chiasm.

The sun burns empty cathedrals into kaleidoscopes of spiritual paranoia.

Vertebrae by vertebrae, the human spine explodes in designer taboos

engineered by the Godless cherubim of the Dead Star of Gehenna.

A rainbow, tapping it roots on the ceiling of the soil, infects the skin

of a Vampire with the miracle of normalcy.

On the streets, Yul Brynner gallops into Picasso birth canal.

A furious silence searches for it's Father in the Bullseye of Guernica.

The strangers turn defiant under the shadow of God's open mouth.

Lizards surface in naked phantasmagoria on the edge of cast iron

manholes.

A stream of confetti suggests the atoms trapped underneath a ballerinas

eyelids; the parade grows dense with aquatic fevers.

Sephiroth hatches a phoenix above her frozen skull. The bird descends

through fields turning naked in delirium with ever expanding questions.

Down, into the curious mirage of hate, the dream of circus poets

cauterizes the wounds of eternity in a poem too strange to be written.

Lattices of ancient geometrical realities shoot from the fingertips of

architects bathed in platonic madness of light after light infiltrating

their flesh with rays of cosmic curiousity.

Her toes twitch like apples in cat's eyes. The archetypes of ravens glows

in the permanent heartache of her ever recurring birth.

Through the spinning chambers of the eternal return, atoms chant secret

names of Eskimos, orphans, Pharoahs and nightmares.

Her breath grows deep, deeper, deepest. Down, darkening, down, sounds,

zounds, swooning

in a feathery swirl of judgment and theory, her mouth moves in slow

motion around the lost syllable of Christ's adolescent gasp --- at the

moment of his first realization of the unfathomable depths of human

suffering.

***

In the slipstreams of the silhouette, the soliloquy of silence ---

inside the surface of the strangest smile,

over arc and tangent of the Einstein Podolsky Rosen Bridge, in the curling weirdness of the celestial dandelion poof, where the sacred churning of the whale's tail on the edge of Infinity sounds like a Mother's cooing,

--- down, far down in

the event horizon of cellular nuclei # 2992778168812, She changed the channel and became a blue Tomato.

The television sizzled into birth on the horizon; burst into Resistors and diodes, and Sang

of it's secret life within the Human Imagination.

The Soul seeking Cameras at the end of Time

swiveled into the still point of perfect insanity.

Infinite Incarnations. She became the Whale. The tear.

The cloud. The phantom. The clock. The daisy. The Electron.

Who changed the channel of this Universe, She sang?

"Who are you to ask, without a mouth?", the silence responded.

An audience assembled, like the Face of a Clown assembles around

a brick:

Suddenly, she felt the eyes of a Sphinx:

exploding like the light of heaven;

writing riddles of photons on her flesh.

Word by word, her skin unlocked itself into strange trapeziums of endlessly complexity

unfolding like roses in the Ever Present Gaze of Everything.

Always the Gaze.

The Electron Eye. The eLEctron EYEYYEYEYEYYEYE.

Her fingertips burst into flaming poetry.

One by one, the guests announced themselves:

Strange men with Monkey faces with fists full of money.

Women with frogs weeping in their eyes.

Lightning bolt skinned transvestites.

Dozens of madmen howling the secret name of certain existential dogs. Do they exist?

Like razors. Like lasers. Like the phases of the moon.

These creatures

ripple in the bathroom mirror, turning you inside out,

until you condense.

Cell by cell, your blood & your soul evaporates:

You become cloudlike, hovering in strange places without speech:

Like thunder over Calcutta.

Or humming birds iu the Louvre. Butterflies in God's Eyebrows.

Or Silence at the Led Zeppelin concert.

On the edge of this hovering madness,

where your skin disappears: there is

a mystery:

1010101010101010101000100100100001001001010001

0010100100100101010010101010010101101010010010

10011010010010110101001010101010010100101001010

YES AND NO AND NO AND NO AND YES AND YES:

and the green ness. the red ness. the blue ness.

Geometry of Octopi boiling in the boiling of God's inhuman heart.

The language is bioluminescent, like Picasso's wet dream.

A flock of birds fly:

out of her uterus, breeding strange winds into the vaginal delirium.

And it was good. She sang.

Inside the cornstalks, the Western Silhouette turns ghostlike, exhaling rumors and myths of the Great Magician Houdini.

A Scarecrow's tongue, flutters and comes unfurled. A flag of madness

in the Western sky under a rich tapestry of synchronicity.

His flesh --- burning in this wicked heat; it is a prayer shawl

from ten miles away; he stitches his flesh with threads of her immortal soul.

In the silhouette of time; She witnesses a prayer transmute itself from a Verb, into a Swan's wing and finally into the mouth of a beggar.

A silver coin appears inside her golden mouth.

Her Father elopes into the moonlight like a Praying Mantis cloaked in a Wizards' robe on Christmas Day.

Here eyes were black like dead machines,

made holy by their absence of light.

Song after song, strange machine gods lit the Kundalini serpent in the oscillations of her spine.

The noise of God. The light of Heaven. Over and over, endlessness.

The night came and she listened to the sound of the Universe making love to itself.

The lovers voices were were charged with a churning chasm of numerological bliss.

Gemini; Pisces, Aquarius, Libra. The nine trillion eyes of mystery

plundering her flesh for new salvations.

She felt her fingers slip into the heart of a newborn tarantula.

Her lips rise and fall like roses and fangs, opening and closing like Thunder inside the corn.

***

In the slipstreams of the silhouette, the soliloquy of silence ---

inside the surface of the strangest smile,

over arc and tangent of the Einstein Podolsky Rosen Bridge, in the curling weirdness of the celestial dandelion poof, where the sacred churning of the whale's tail on the edge of Infinity sounds like a Mother's cooing,

--- down, far down in

the event horizon of cellular nuclei # 2992778168812, She changed the channel and became a blue Tomato.

The television sizzled into birth on the horizon; burst into Resistors and diodes, and Sang

of it's secret life within the Human Imagination.

The Soul seeking Cameras at the end of Time

swiveled into the still point of perfect insanity.

Infinite Incarnations. She became the Whale. The tear.

The cloud. The phantom. The clock. The daisy. The Electron.

Who changed the channel of this Universe, She sang?

"Who are you to ask, without a mouth?", the silence responded.

An audience assembled, like the Face of a Clown assembles around

a brick:

Suddenly, she felt the eyes of a Sphinx:

exploding like the light of heaven;

writing riddles of photons on her flesh.

Word by word, her skin unlocked itself into strange trapeziums of endlessly complexity

unfolding like roses in the Ever Present Gaze of Everything.

Always the Gaze.

The Electron Eye. The eLEctron EYEYYEYEYEYYEYE.

Her fingertips burst into flaming poetry.

One by one, the guests announced themselves:

Strange men with Monkey faces with fists full of money.

Women with frogs weeping in their eyes.

Lightning bolt skinned transvestites.

Dozens of madmen howling the secret name of certain existential dogs. Do they exist?

Like razors. Like lasers. Like the phases of the moon.

These creatures

ripple in the bathroom mirror, turning you inside out,

until you condense.

Cell by cell, your blood & your soul evaporates:

You become cloudlike, hovering in strange places without speech:

Like thunder over Calcutta.

Or humming birds iu the Louvre. Butterflies in God's Eyebrows.

Or Silence at the Led Zeppelin concert.

On the edge of this hovering madness,

where your skin disappears: there is

a mystery:

1010101010101010101000100100100001001001010001

0010100100100101010010101010010101101010010010

10011010010010110101001010101010010100101001010

YES AND NO AND NO AND NO AND YES AND YES:

and the green ness. the red ness. the blue ness.

Geometry of Octopi boiling in the boiling of God's inhuman heart.

The language is bioluminescent, like Picasso's wet dream.

A flock of birds fly:

out of her uterus, breeding strange winds into the vaginal delirium.

And it was good. She sang.

Inside the cornstalks, the Western Silhouette turns ghostlike, exhaling rumors and myths of the Great Magician Houdini.

A Scarecrow's tongue, flutters and comes unfurled. A flag of madness

in the Western sky under a rich tapestry of synchronicity.

His flesh --- burning in this wicked heat; it is a prayer shawl

from ten miles away; he stitches his flesh with threads of her immortal soul.

In the silhouette of time; She witnesses a prayer transmute itself from a Verb, into a Swan's wing and finally into the mouth of a beggar.

A silver coin appears inside her golden mouth.

Her Father elopes into the moonlight like a Praying Mantis cloaked in a Wizards' robe on Christmas Day.

Here eyes were black like dead machines,

made holy by their absence of light.

Song after song, strange machine gods lit the Kundalini serpent in the oscillations of her spine.

The noise of God. The light of Heaven. Over and over, endlessness.

The night came and she listened to the sound of the Universe making love to itself.

The lovers voices were were charged with a churning chasm of numerological bliss.

Gemini; Pisces, Aquarius, Libra. The nine trillion eyes of mystery

plundering her flesh for new salvations.

She felt her fingers slip into the heart of a newborn tarantula.

Her lips rise and fall like roses and fangs, opening and closing like Thunder inside the corn.

***

Andante, the adamantine violin;

sings endless doremifasolatido,

seeding solace, a soliton of the celestial serendip,

rain walking into the Sea of Tranquility on the

footsteps of the Grandfather Oak,

the face of ancient Symbol unfurled in flooding fingerprints,

a lyre of Orphic foreshadowing,

hung in the starlit canopy,

where dreamless sleep of neutrons the neuron,

and the ringing of the Bells in hummingbird throat

conjured the wood flesh with lunged thunder of the thirsting thought,

the voice of the Godess Gods an echo roaring in the bark

of the open mouth of oaken wood knots rooted in the maddened

earth.

Eyes and lips, hunger of lumbering thrush -- unquenched,

the Oak slakes it's innocence on the laughter of the falling leaf,

and by the falling into winter reveals the songs write by

Kings of the man mad madness

of the Eldritch whirling in the whorls of wind

Willow mother transcends her slither,

disappearing like a rainbow, into the hovel of the clutching earth.

Flesh and dream bring rings of interpolated laughter

into a strange tangle of the enchanted nerve,

bringing twelve new algebras across the butterfly wings

in footsteps of the Imaginary Beings of the Soul.

A googolplex of thought:

pollinating nations, screaming endless light scintilla

of the Eyeless underworld child,

writing names in the mascara of the Wiccan Priestess

that sleeps in the nerves of Orchids pooling in the

brachiating flood of bifurcating lovers

The woman's soul is a curtain of arboreal uncertainty.

She taps her feet lightly on the Leviathan's skull,

dancing and drifting through the forest Alleyway on the toe shoes of inviolate violets,

balanced in the parabolic curve of nonesuch keeping simple beauty. The night of this unquelled uncertainty ignites the wild embers with the paradox of ouroubouros.

She is He and He is You and none of them are either neither either neither living nor not even dead.

She begins in an indeterminate stance; her fingertips plucking coal of Vainamoinen, whispered raindrops from the thoughtless sky, her abdomen wrapped in thought around the light beams

of the beginning of the time the thought began. Magic and Science, words like neutron hours, each a version of the warring nightmares

that burn with ghastly hunt of desire; in walls and shadow, they turn the spirit into the spirit, thermodynamic systems migrating along curves not made for human comprehension.

Her mouth sucks flowering parallelograms up from the place where the sleepers knot perfect strangers into knots of sleepless mysteries of newborn love.

Her vagina growls, a deep well of sacred geometry mirrored in the white hot salt of the Sea of Poetic Metaphors.

The city of the Life After Life is a bed of disembodied thoughts invested with the strange energy of dead men's consciousness. In the celebration of this Unreal Reality,

art performs miracles of surrealism as beauty drips from a dead man's skull.

The laws of geometry and consequence in the Universe no longer apply.

The theatre curls into the fleshy whorls of the Knotted, dreaming Oak.

a million Raindrops whirl into pagans of Sanskrit Telepathy,

dropping like flowery pillows on the hurricane tongue of Time

***

In the field where sight becomes song being sung by the Unsung of Singer

where the blue notes blush in zephyrs of shapeshifting Verbs

and the inhuman eyes settle like the Souls of Magicians

into the eggshell monastery of your ever expanding eardrum;

a thousand new thoughts arrive every moment,

as the Snow leopards weep in crystalline vowels of disbelief,

--- their tears spilling into cascades of anti - gravity and Sephiroth.

Mantras of ocean waves churning in the pages of thermodynamic monsoons,

convective ectsasies converging in the infinite freedom of immortal beings asleep in the skies above the subatomic Manhattan.

In the subspace of her Virgin Mother's eyelids;

a tribe of katydids begins translating the poetry of the centuries' dead Dante from written language back into it's original Life in the form of potato soup.

The creature with a trillion filaments of thought suspended in the UFO's nested in her uterus,

paints her toenails in golden green apples of impermanent impermanence.

Moment by moment, the bellybutton of the Eternal Mother --- like bridges built backward in Time --- shimmers open

revealing the eyes of the first audience, trilling with the laughter of deep sea anemone,

actors in the Daydream of the Virgin, pirouetting in perfect rhyme --- one quark away from the Throne of God.

The Unwritten poem races through the Real world at the speed of a million hieroglyphics per synchronicity.

***

The atomic curiosities of her Persian Spirit effloresce into

the caravanserai of Scheherezade, lighting

fleshy wilds of the unfinished

light into the beginning of the center in your

unmoored eye,

the Soul of Sails Slipping into the Sightless Sea of Sleepiness,

through algebraic realms of instantaneous astonishment.

From well within the feathered nest of the Trillion hearts,

the Virgin laughter reverses the Polarity of your

imaginary imagination.

the unknowable past becomes the unforgettable future.

Here and now is now then and there; everywhere is nothingness

to be exhaled by trillions of ruby neutrinos

sweeping through the void in choreographed

hurricanes of unbroken symmetry.

The spiritual vine dips it's fingering snares into the deep blue

breath of the Brazilian flood soil.

an echo whorls in the wings of

The White witch

when; ignites the severed head of God like a candlewick,

painting weirdnesss int the shadows

like waterfalling in the mirrow of a sparrow's breaking heart.

A newborn planet exchanges wedding vows with the Widow of

the Moon and the transcendental gravity

swells underneath the newborn baby's footprint

Again and again, she turns her spirit inside out. Her body slips like a tongue into God's television.

And so it was. Her abdomen is rich with the fevered heartache of the Mississipi Delta.

Sephiroth and other vagabond angels exchange wedding vows in the heart of a Virgin.

Her left nipple erupts in a cascade of Persian dew.

Quasi-sentient scarabs migrate from the belly of the Boolean underworld across a field of Aeolian zephyrs laced in the dew of differential equations.

hell reverberates in opera paused on a dead fisherman's mouth.

A single beam of wicked illuminations paints God's digital teardrops in the howling maelstrom of neurons in the brain of Shakespeare's lost canary.

***

In the field where sight becomes song being sung by the Unsung of Singer

where the blue notes blush in zephyrs of shapeshifting Verbs

and the inhuman eyes settle like the Souls of Magicians

into the eggshell monastery of your ever expanding eardrum;

a thousand new thoughts arrive every moment,

as the Snow leopards weep in crystalline vowels of disbelief,

--- their tears spilling into cascades of anti - gravity and Sephiroth.

Mantras of ocean waves churning in the pages of thermodynamic monsoons,

convective ectsasies converging in the infinite freedom of immortal beings asleep in the skies above the subatomic Manhattan.

In the subspace of her Virgin Mother's eyelids;

a tribe of katydids begins translating the poetry of the centuries' dead Dante from written language back into it's original Life in the form of potato soup.

The creature with a trillion filaments of thought suspended in the UFO's nested in her uterus,

paints her toenails in golden green apples of impermanent impermanence.

Moment by moment, the bellybutton of the Eternal Mother --- like bridges built backward in Time --- shimmers open

revealing the eyes of the first audience, trilling with the laughter of deep sea anemone,

actors in the Daydream of the Virgin, pirouetting in perfect rhyme --- one quark away from the Throne of God.

The Unwritten poem races through the Real world at the speed of a million hieroglyphics per synchronicity.

***

The atomic curiosities of her Persian Spirit effloresce into

the caravanserai of Scheherezade, lighting

fleshy wilds of the unfinished

light into the beginning of the center in your

unmoored eye,

the Soul of Sails Slipping into the Sightless Sea of Sleepiness,

through algebraic realms of instantaneous astonishment.

From well within the feathered nest of the Trillion hearts,

the Virgin laughter reverses the Polarity of your

imaginary imagination.

the unknowable past becomes the unforgettable future.

Here and now is now then and there; everywhere is nothingness

to be exhaled by trillions of ruby neutrinos

sweeping through the void in choreographed

hurricanes of unbroken symmetry.

The spiritual vine dips it's fingering snares into the deep blue

breath of the Brazilian flood soil.

an echo whorls in the wings of

The White witch

when; ignites the severed head of God like a candlewick,

painting weirdnesss int the shadows

like waterfalling in the mirrow of a sparrow's breaking heart.

A newborn planet exchanges wedding vows with the Widow of

the Moon and the transcendental gravity

swells underneath the newborn baby's footprint

Again and again, she turns her spirit inside out. Her body slips like a tongue into God's television.

And so it was. Her abdomen is rich with the fevered heartache of the Mississipi Delta.

Sephiroth and other vagabond angels exchange wedding vows in the heart of a Virgin.

Her left nipple erupts in a cascade of Persian dew.

Quasi-sentient scarabs migrate from the belly of the Boolean underworld across a field of Aeolian zephyrs laced in the dew of differential equations.

hell reverberates in opera paused on a dead fisherman's mouth.

A single beam of wicked illuminations paints God's digital teardrops in the howling maelstrom of neurons in the brain of Shakespeare's lost canary.

***

The exoskeleton of God implodes into a network of televisions

in the Graveyard of Fools. At the end of this post-imaginary

world, Heaven has anointed the eyes of

those unfinished infants into whitecaps of post modern insanity.

The television sings of the apocalypse, a thousand archangels

whirling in silence between the Commercials.

From deep inside the Mitochondria of the Elf Queen,

a haunted Babylonion orchestra

turns over and over: excitation of the wisdom of

purple things, lost in the wishing well of her Lilithine ovaries.

The gamma rays of Limbo twist the gordian knot of non local consciousness,

until 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 across 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 or end.

the philosophy of sapphires emanates from the soul of an audience assembled

during the heat death of Hamlet, whose Ghost flutters into the cloudlike

whirlpool of Ophelia's starlit vanity.

Tides of mystery spin incomprehensible patterns of ancient bardic consciousness

into a field drunk with the daydreams of dew bathed acorns.

On Golgotha, as Christ is being lowered from the Cross, she exhales a single

unreal tear;

hot & moist, like the dream shaking inside the Parthenon walls. Her mouth

explodes into the rainforest of carnivorous musculature.

Her mother's womb becomes the rubicon of the Michaelangelo tribe. Birth by

birth, her throat swarms with canticles of bumblebee poetry.

The city is trapped in the Vertiginous shadow play of salvation; nerve cells of

all the living beings alive flutter with primitive languages in nests of

hypnotic reverie.

algebraic fire quilts her brain into waves of sanity.

Moment by moment, her body explodes in antiparticles, like laughter during the

funeral of God.

The quintessential imaginary breath leaps from heart to heart,

whispering mythologies of moonless sorrow into the fleshy ark of silence.

The first inkling of Madness curls into a tribe of runaway polka dots under her

fingernails.

as the streetlamp flickers, she discovers her skin wrapped in the funeral

shroud of the wound that is not a wound.

In the still point of death, a billion light years worth of Planck time washes

the Corpse of Manhattan into the calculated fire of a tibetan hummingbird's

heart.

One by one, the faces of the audience glow, drunk with the pink noise of

eternal curiousity.

Deep in the abyss of Center stage, the Troupe of the Seventh Heaven leaps

through cycles of Shakespearean nihilism.

a Perilous Cathedral erupts in the nightmares of Limbo. Her mother's ghost

cradles holograms of unbearably mysterious love in the pillows of her breasts.

her soul lifts like Icarus into the brownian motion of hell, balancing it's

gestalt above a vented manhole, every fallow tide of chiaruscuro feathering

into translucent foglets of machine forged mantras.

Pigeon feathers cling like wounded orphans to the neon sign above her head. Her

toenails are candelabras twinkling in still frames of the apocalyptic cartoon.

***

Imaginary beings assemble like

the Dead Gods: lost in the Vanishing point ---

there --- where all parallel lines converge,

and law by law ---

the flesh of the unborn

is knotted in the nuclei of infinite

egress.

The nocturne turns, the Circle of Seers,

a Sphere of non euclidean conscience /

illuminating Fractal Fractals

in Fractalline

actuals of the Serpentine skin,

tattoos of incomprehensible thought

billowing in the Hallucinating Wind.

Reuniting Gods with the opposite of Gods

in the Temples of the Infinite Wow.

Thoughts. Gazelles / the brazier, the white lyre /

strange denizens develop

in the Particle Zoo.

The cauldron is the stomach of Zeus, burning with

roots made of fire. A light shadow, the Elf, the Imp,

the Golden Braid

brings threads and melodies unmade.

Conscience, the quiet escapade of jitterbugging chimney sweeps

on the street of Lost Carnivals,

arriving where the White beards eye the blue skins,

green hearts leaping into purple wines

of madwomen

that rise in harlequin valentines through miracles of uncertainty's imperfect

impermanence

and faces break in jewels of Glassy god - fires, tongues swishing in maelstroms

of good luck lunacy,

while hurricanes of the divine imagination beach themselves on the shore of the

Living Genome.

Fruits burst in salvation, vegetable eyes sleeping like the monstrous wisdom

of sugars boiling on the edge of everything. where nothing Is what it Is.

Her eyes ignite in sweet swanlike swishing

of Word - crushed clouds climbing the Hot hungers of heaven,

in spiraling spirit of Time into Time into Time of endless apparitions of

endlessness.

Upon the silence, the Song of Sirens. Solomon's children,

Chanting like violins, howling golden rushes on the river of light, the

reeds of this river, running the rumours of lungs

rising in gasping ligaments rippled by vortices of muddy verbs, aphids drunk on

invisible rainbows.

Enzyme colored angels churn in the larva of the UFO of Human Souls ---

assembling

mysterious chasms of being --- in canyons of our DNA.

Trillions of amino acid shaped prophecies leap in silent regard of

hieroglyphics

spinning transubstantiating memories off the runway of her tongue.

In Winter, the nightingale Mothers infant light beams in rose - powered wombs

and conjurations of

Lightning blooms in luminescent lemniscates.

The opalescent theories of lives divided by zero --- algorithms of infinite

freedom:

Kurt Godel dancing on hot coals in the Cartoon of Infinite Simultaneity.

Wisdom drips in thoughts of blood- surfing amino acids,

crowds of Christlike poetry, soul - flavored adjectves stitching God's

Grandmotherly verbs into anonymous unities of Love.

Holy laughter tunnels into daffodils --- burning irons of musculature,

eternal mysteries racing through the nucleus of the Here & Now --- the Universe

a Crime Scene?

New born prisoners leap fish - like, splashing new whispers in the starry

Uterus of Heaven.

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

the trillion dollar rose.

Her lips pucker into pearls and pomegranates, sorcerer hat thunderclouds pursed

in the wet dreams of Cobras.

Supernovas boil like Shakespeare's ink,

singing voodoo pentameter to dust motes writhing

on the floor of a Kansas

flower hotel.

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

haunted pulpit,

churning with strange lights, & the pain receptors of the Kingdom of

Jabberwocky.

The universe inverts. Caterpillars anoint themselves, cell by cell,

into Priests of the Oceanic Eardrum swooshing Rubyait's in the Electromagnetic

Rubicon of Time.

A Transylvanian supermodel howls the tetragammatron

in the ground zero of impermanently impermanent impermanence.

A trillion miles of inward ascension begins on the edge of her freckles.

Buddhist dream spelunkers unite in the Cavernous well of the Immaculate

Conception.

Freckled Nuns swoop in nude canteloupes through the Hindu 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 the world into nothing nothing nothingness.

Nada hurls flags of Lizard Eyes into the terra incognita of her time - eating

birthmark,

and the Chapel of Peril is bathed in the Poetry of the Unknown Unknowns with

the supernal iridescence of grasshopper laughter.

***

IN the pandemonium of her fingernails,

the traces of her laughter

boil like wild fish, every mysterious casket of color swirling in

paragraphs of the indescribable Shekinah ...

from inside the funereal Interior; a light bulb winks.

like the supercomputer's nightmare,

chanting One Zero One Zero

From deep inside the convenience store,

I summon the Egyptian Goddess Isis, twisting every amino acid into a living

spiral,

the Feather Rising against the heart of a chameleon

through

an incubating underworld.

Polarized membranes calculate the immense blue human suffering.

Her skin turns green inside the Bar Room Window,

where Sacrilegious monsters

cook the garden of into fevers of doubt.

Bluebonnet flowers are smuggled by children

into the memory of strange old women who gather like

family of rattlesnakes

on the side of the road.

until the museum sidewalk burns with the ghost songs of troubadours.

Gently, she tattoos a poetic manifesto on the moment of my flesh. I die into her transcendental emptiness.

An unfamiliar confidante, struck by the ghastly jazz of irrational joy --- rescues my deepest ideas from the flood of future tragedies.

The shadow of a philosopher vomits the starlight of heaven into the inescapable

void.

One by one, the secret thoughts of the Seraphim exhale through the bones of the archetypal genius.

He works in testicle colored lightning.

She makes love to the Goddess in a syzygy of broken hearts

Her skin is trapped on trapezoidal paradoxes of light and darkness

exchanging wedding vows in a Chapel of Photons.

The nightingale flutters into a cavern of human ears. Van Gogh impales his flesh on the throne of unrequited love.

An butterfly brain trembles with earthquakes of spiritual dissonance.

Coos from doves drive the nuns into churches of laughter. They are hysterical,

like ravens on the edge of the Ocean tide.

the tongue of God is sucking the desert dry of Prophets.

Dawn weds the key of heaven to the lock of hell.

At midnight, Prometheus slips into the dark space between the stars.

The Song of Solomon infects her flesh with juxtapositions of love and mystery.

Cleave a stone, and the Shekinah yawns.

***

The uterus - blue ocean exhales: the teardrops of

the dreaming Stone,

a trillion fingerprints of Eden breaking into

prayers of the world, cross by cross, the infinite whirl

around the Delusion of G-d that rises into

a stratosphere of Ions,

where teardrop into teardrop churns wild Sephiroth into

the frowns of Sharks, the Smiles of Dolphins,

Anemone sitting on Gift Shop shelves where the tourists

are dressed in white fire.

A hurricane seed of starlit thunder

ignites like the ghost of Holy Moses,

sweeping from the troposphere in roiling convection toward the

Hotel of Lost Meaning

on the coast of Triangles Circling the Square of the Parallelogram's Lightning

A blind cleric, paused on the edge of the thunder,

his eyes balanced in a hypnotic curl, urges the

hurricane into a ballad of exponential convections.

Tangents of whispering white waves,

unfurled like tongues into lashes of burnished ecstasy --

elope on vortices poised between the edge of the vaginal sky

and the iron heart of the sea curling earth.

The night turns tantrum,

hurling rocks into the Sky of shipwrecked phantasms

burning like the blind eyes of Orpheus buried

in the clouds at the edge of the Known

***

The exoskeleton of God implodes into a network of televisions

in the Graveyard of Fools. At the end of this post-imaginary

world, Heaven has anointed the eyes of

those unfinished infants into whitecaps of post modern insanity.

The television sings of the apocalypse, a thousand archangels

whirling in silence between the Commercials.

From deep inside the Mitochondria of the Elf Queen,

a haunted Babylonion orchestra

turns over and over: excitation of the wisdom of

purple things, lost in the wishing well of her Lilithine ovaries.

The gamma rays of Limbo twist the gordian knot of non local consciousness,

until 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 across 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 or end.

the philosophy of sapphires emanates from the soul of an audience assembled

during the heat death of Hamlet, whose Ghost flutters into the cloudlike

whirlpool of Ophelia's starlit vanity.

Tides of mystery spin incomprehensible patterns of ancient bardic consciousness

into a field drunk with the daydreams of dew bathed acorns.

On Golgotha, as Christ is being lowered from the Cross, she exhales a single

unreal tear;

hot & moist, like the dream shaking inside the Parthenon walls. Her mouth

explodes into the rainforest of carnivorous musculature.

Her mother's womb becomes the rubicon of the Michaelangelo tribe. Birth by

birth, her throat swarms with canticles of bumblebee poetry.

The city is trapped in the Vertiginous shadow play of salvation; nerve cells of

all the living beings alive flutter with primitive languages in nests of

hypnotic reverie.

algebraic fire quilts her brain into waves of sanity.

Moment by moment, her body explodes in antiparticles, like laughter during the

funeral of God.

The quintessential imaginary breath leaps from heart to heart,

whispering mythologies of moonless sorrow into the fleshy ark of silence.

The first inkling of Madness curls into a tribe of runaway polka dots under her

fingernails.

as the streetlamp flickers, she discovers her skin wrapped in the funeral

shroud of the wound that is not a wound.

In the still point of death, a billion light years worth of Planck time washes

the Corpse of Manhattan into the calculated fire of a tibetan hummingbird's

heart.

One by one, the faces of the audience glow, drunk with the pink noise of

eternal curiousity.

Deep in the abyss of Center stage, the Troupe of the Seventh Heaven leaps

through cycles of Shakespearean nihilism.

a Perilous Cathedral erupts in the nightmares of Limbo. Her mother's ghost

cradles holograms of unbearably mysterious love in the pillows of her breasts.

her soul lifts like Icarus into the brownian motion of hell, balancing it's

gestalt above a vented manhole, every fallow tide of chiaruscuro feathering

into translucent foglets of machine forged mantras.

Pigeon feathers cling like wounded orphans to the neon sign above her head. Her

toenails are candelabras twinkling in still frames of the apocalyptic cartoon.

***

The exoskeleton of God implodes into a network of televisions

in the Graveyard of Fools. At the end of this post-imaginary

world, Heaven has anointed the eyes of

those unfinished infants into whitecaps of post modern insanity.

The television sings of the apocalypse, a thousand archangels

whirling in silence between the Commercials.

From deep inside the Mitochondria of the Elf Queen,

a haunted Babylonion orchestra

turns over and over: excitation of the wisdom of

purple things, lost in the wishing well of her Lilithine ovaries.

The gamma rays of Limbo twist the gordian knot of non local consciousness,

until 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 across 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 or end.

the philosophy of sapphires emanates from the soul of an audience assembled

during the heat death of Hamlet, whose Ghost flutters into the cloudlike

whirlpool of Ophelia's starlit vanity.

Tides of mystery spin incomprehensible patterns of ancient bardic consciousness

into a field drunk with the daydreams of dew bathed acorns.

On Golgotha, as Christ is being lowered from the Cross, she exhales a single

unreal tear;

hot & moist, like the dream shaking inside the Parthenon walls. Her mouth

explodes into the rainforest of carnivorous musculature.

Her mother's womb becomes the rubicon of the Michaelangelo tribe. Birth by

birth, her throat swarms with canticles of bumblebee poetry.

The city is trapped in the Vertiginous shadow play of salvation; nerve cells of

all the living beings alive flutter with primitive languages in nests of

hypnotic reverie.

algebraic fire quilts her brain into waves of sanity.

Moment by moment, her body explodes in antiparticles, like laughter during the

funeral of God.

The quintessential imaginary breath leaps from heart to heart,

whispering mythologies of moonless sorrow into the fleshy ark of silence.

The first inkling of Madness curls into a tribe of runaway polka dots under her

fingernails.

as the streetlamp flickers, she discovers her skin wrapped in the funeral

shroud of the wound that is not a wound.

In the still point of death, a billion light years worth of Planck time washes

the Corpse of Manhattan into the calculated fire of a tibetan hummingbird's

heart.

One by one, the faces of the audience glow, drunk with the pink noise of

eternal curiousity.

Deep in the abyss of Center stage, the Troupe of the Seventh Heaven leaps

through cycles of Shakespearean nihilism.

a Perilous Cathedral erupts in the nightmares of Limbo. Her mother's ghost

cradles holograms of unbearably mysterious love in the pillows of her breasts.

her soul lifts like Icarus into the brownian motion of hell, balancing it's

gestalt above a vented manhole, every fallow tide of chiaruscuro feathering

into translucent foglets of machine forged mantras.

Pigeon feathers cling like wounded orphans to the neon sign above her head. Her

toenails are candelabras twinkling in still frames of the apocalyptic cartoon.

***

IN the pandemonium of her fingernails,

the traces of her laughter

boil like wild fish, every mysterious casket of color swirling in

paragraphs of the indescribable Shekinah ...

from inside the funereal Interior; a light bulb winks.

like the supercomputer's nightmare,

chanting One Zero One Zero

From deep inside the convenience store,

I summon the Egyptian Goddess Isis, twisting every amino acid into a living

spiral,

the Feather Rising against the heart of a chameleon

through

an incubating underworld.

Polarized membranes calculate the immense blue human suffering.

Her skin turns green inside the Bar Room Window,

where Sacrilegious monsters

cook the garden of into fevers of doubt.

Bluebonnet flowers are smuggled by children

into the memory of strange old women who gather like

family of rattlesnakes

on the side of the road.

until the museum sidewalk burns with the ghost songs of troubadours.

Gently, she tattoos a poetic manifesto on the moment of my flesh. I die into her transcendental emptiness.

An unfamiliar confidante, struck by the ghastly jazz of irrational joy --- rescues my deepest ideas from the flood of future tragedies.

The shadow of a philosopher vomits the starlight of heaven into the inescapable

void.

One by one, the secret thoughts of the Seraphim exhale through the bones of the archetypal genius.

He works in testicle colored lightning.

She makes love to the Goddess in a syzygy of broken hearts

Her skin is trapped on trapezoidal paradoxes of light and darkness

exchanging wedding vows in a Chapel of Photons.

The nightingale flutters into a cavern of human ears. Van Gogh impales his flesh on the throne of unrequited love.

An butterfly brain trembles with earthquakes of spiritual dissonance.

Coos from doves drive the nuns into churches of laughter. They are hysterical,

like ravens on the edge of the Ocean tide.

the tongue of God is sucking the desert dry of Prophets.

Dawn weds the key of heaven to the lock of hell.

At midnight, Prometheus slips into the dark space between the stars.

The Song of Solomon infects her flesh with juxtapositions of love and mystery.

Cleave a stone, and the Shekinah yawns.

***

The uterus - blue ocean exhales: the teardrops of

the dreaming Stone,

a trillion fingerprints of Eden breaking into

prayers of the world, cross by cross, the infinite whirl

around the Delusion of G-d that rises into

a stratosphere of Ions,

where teardrop into teardrop churns wild Sephiroth into

the frowns of Sharks, the Smiles of Dolphins,

Anemone sitting on Gift Shop shelves where the tourists

are dressed in white fire.

A hurricane seed of starlit thunder

ignites like the ghost of Holy Moses,

sweeping from the troposphere in roiling convection toward the

Hotel of Lost Meaning

on the coast of Triangles Circling the Square of the Parallelogram's Lightning

A blind cleric, paused on the edge of the thunder,

his eyes balanced in a hypnotic curl, urges the

hurricane into a ballad of exponential convections.

Tangents of whispering white waves,

unfurled like tongues into lashes of burnished ecstasy --

elope on vortices poised between the edge of the vaginal sky

and the iron heart of the sea curling earth.

The night turns tantrum,

hurling rocks into the Sky of shipwrecked phantasms

burning like the blind eyes of Orpheus buried

in the clouds at the edge of the Known

***

One by one, the polygons surface in Her brain;

ballerino, ballerina:

glimmering in perfect rhythm to the first fractal iteration

of a snowflake that has named itself God.

On the tip of the tongue, there is a resurrection of the Word.

Sailing into kingdoms of the spectral blue and white;

the dawn hangs in the balance of a girl's face,

which is exploding in a tapestry of unforgivable tears.

The girl's name is scintillating in a broken dance around the choir of vowels.

Clocks cure the night of it's ghastly permanence; her breath traces light-beams through the nostrils of the Playwright's death wish.

Her mouth is a glorious composition of harmonics driven by the music of DNA into a symphony of absolute motion.

Her toes glow in fairy tale chocolate, tripping curiously into the waltzes of pointillism.

She seeks her name (and finds only unbreakable code) in the dark spaces between the stars.

She takes heart breaking thrills in the plight of migrating fruit flies.

Purple, pastel, the laughter of time - bending guppies---- a lavender crush of insane gentility, a yellowish hush of mysterious wish - filled hues.

Reverberating eunoia quarries her secret fear from the labyrinthine coils of her stony brain.

A skeleton is draped across the emptiness of her spirit... her redemption lies in the birth of wisdom from her pores.

She floods the City of the Stars with an endless rain of her unstoppable tears.

***

Eagles on the moonlit curve of Crescent Illuminations,

whisper hints of oceanic phantasms

through the windows of the baroque monastery.

Where the monks sit, silent, consuming endless vowels.

The prayers of trillions of primates,

burning in the whispering sea salt that

permeates her skin with a strange hysteria of lost lives.

Whirlpools. Oxygen oscillating in prisons of her intimate apocalypse.

The sky is traced with the sensation of a Genie - infected wind.

Wish after wish after wish is coming true in fantastic

cascades of endless Is.

Is. Is. Is. Is. Is. Is. Is.

Blackness ignites. the City of Mystery warps itself, wraps itself around her Eurodancer's skin.

On the coast of her swollen libido, the night has washed a thousand sea sick sailors in the Galilean milk,

They lay drunk on the shore,

mouths gasping for the honey of the Stars.

Her spine, curled in a ribbon like a candlewick poised on the edge of a trillion futile hallucinations, ignites in a flame of symbolic logic.

Each symphony burns labyrinths of wisdom

around the deafening silence of her inhuman human love.

The world erupts in wave after wave of fascinating curves.

Sphere! O Swimming circle, washing cubist trapezoids ---

A trillion points of light sweep from the water into the heart of a Spanish guitarist cleverly buried in the white hot musculature of a reddened love song.

The world loses it capacity to understand anything at all.

Crescendos of prayer roll through history. Night after night, the language of God crucifies itself in mythologies that invade the blood streams of wandering astro - felines.

Dreams oscillate in the lost logic of heaven's unknowable name;

words float like fish, caught in the strange light of a sea of

unfinished prayers.

***

She wakes: the mirage of her face shimmers in chromodynamic mystery.

Cell by cell, the automaton of civilization churns into daisy chains of being.

Cylinders; diodes. Playing cards. Coffee Machines. Electric Eyes.

Machine Guns. Unfinished Love Songs.

It is coming into life on Oscillations of Probability;

burning with the fury the heat seeking number line, '

zillions of self replicating zeroes and ones

whirling into alien alphabets that crest in unretractable action,

dissolving in the light like

women dissolving into the light uncovered by the

footsteps of invisible Sufi, Wall Street, Muscovite, Tokyo billionaires.

Ghastly apertures of knowing. Lunacies of constant movement.

The silent roar of the inevitable damnation. SHHHH.

The Leviathan. In the bathroom mirror there is a face:

it is not a Face.

It is a series of Bones that chew Electrodes,

It is psychotronic tentacles wrapped around her skeleton,

like Promethean chains rattling in the

the Unstoppable Machine God of Your Daydream.

Endless mystery is all there is.

It

is

all.

There is: MYSTERY.

She inhales the carbon monoxide of the morning Sky,

reminding herself of the Seven Chinese Brothers.

Thinking once again:

There are no real reasons why anything happens the way it does.

Just theory after theory after theory; wild guess,

enigma, riddle, phantasm. A drop of dew, lightning, a bubble.

endless speculation; apparitions of Truth, the worldly dissolution

of faith into lies and lies into nonsense and nonsense into nihilism

and nihilism into war and then: daisies sprout on your summery Grave.

Daisies sprout, like the tongue of a clown.

Graffiti licking our bones. Eyes of subconcious entities

magnified by the Eternal Spectre of Death and phantasmagoric

daydreams of doubt.

The daydream;

Think of the Moon Landing and you think of the Eagle.

Archangels,

a footprint, a flag, the endless curiosity of the precision Machine

Supercomputing the Spiderweb,

reverse engineering the Human Soul.

Every grain of Sand unlocks another potential

Shangri La. How many Woodstocks can you have on the tip of a Pin?

Welcome: The Apex of Western Civilization? The Nadir of Austerity.

Dissolving into Nihilistic overtures of this styrofoam mise en scene

day by day, you conjure up the burning of the Rainforest,

your own face: a silver Spoon in the night sky.

Sturgeons swimming like clouds.

A styrofoam cup in the grass of the park : and the world is destroyed.

Think of nothing. Mantras of Unfinished Words.

Sleep in the existential fever of the here and Now.

Find the Om. The resonance.

The endless daydream of the commerical unreal.

The comitragic moment: the convergence of all parallel lines:

You are sleepwalking through ... Manhattan???

Could be,you are somewhere.

You can hear your Mother calling.

Fifth Avenue undulates with incarnations of statue faced

Sybils bathed in klieg lights of Heaven. Crazy men selling Rolexes.

Tourists like the Brady Bunch in the belly of the whale.

There are Greek debutantes whirling like porcelain dolls

at the end of the Street made of Nothingness.

On the roof of the Trump Tower Building,

an Eagle's eyrie echos with the nursery rhymes of Samsara.

Life after the Daydream arrived.

God's flesh glows hot, a ventriloquist's mouth full of roses like the skeletons of mimes.

You fall, slipping into the subterranean labyrinth of the Ballerina where She is waiting.

Nijinksy, the Russian SEER. And Her Eyes, like Dorian Gray.

Suspended disbelief ---

The devil, She says: is buried in communion wafers burning in the Great City of Hell.

St. Augustine, you know: is lost inside the Mainframe of Limbo, is swallowed by sound of the last word rippling across his Mother's sunburnt lips.

Seven Chinese brothers swallowing the Ocean.

From inside the calculator,

The hearts of a dozen Nuns churn

with the confessions of painters in desperate need of an exorcist.

Hieronymous Bosch goes to Disneyworld. Details at 10.

Ten trillion worlds are simultaneously crashing through the heat shield of her skin.

Zephyrs of infernal orgasms trip around the freckled stairwell of her spine.

human suffering glows like star borne candy on the red hot tongue of her infernal wisdom.

on the edge of death's anvil, Her male heart is the wind tunnel of accelerating tragedy.

She is rage of the star drunk aphid, howling in goldmines of daisy fueled thought hospitals. A UFO nests in the eyes of the Peyote King humming silently in the Cathedral of her soul - expanding vagina.

architectures of cubist harmonies echo in the movements of God down 5th avenue.

In the wilderness of those fingerprints, she discovers the interference pattern of a dolphin's song, resonating like Mnemosyne's memory with a

trillion frequencies, time itself turning neologos andante while the stoplight burns green from yellow husks of incomplete redness.

She suddenly realizes, like the feathered serpent, the unbridled fauna of the Yucatan peninsula escaping from her skin in beads of transubstantiating perspiration.

God's tongue trips into waterfalls of cobra venom, blood from Picasso's palette dripping into in this zoological discotheque.

***

She wakes: the mirage of her face shimmers in chromodynamic mystery.

Cell by cell, the automaton of civilization churns into daisy chains of being.

Cylinders; diodes. Playing cards. Coffee Machines. Electric Eyes.

Machine Guns. Unfinished Love Songs.

It is coming into life on Oscillations of Probability;

burning with the fury the heat seeking number line, '

zillions of self replicating zeroes and ones

whirling into alien alphabets that crest in unretractable action,

dissolving in the light like

women dissolving into the light uncovered by the

footsteps of invisible Sufi, Wall Street, Muscovite, Tokyo billionaires.

Ghastly apertures of knowing. Lunacies of constant movement.

The silent roar of the inevitable damnation. SHHHH.

The Leviathan. In the bathroom mirror there is a face:

it is not a Face.

It is a series of Bones that chew Electrodes,

It is psychotronic tentacles wrapped around her skeleton,

like Promethean chains rattling in the

the Unstoppable Machine God of Your Daydream.

Endless mystery is all there is.

It

is

all.

There is: MYSTERY.

She inhales the carbon monoxide of the morning Sky,

reminding herself of the Seven Chinese Brothers.

Thinking once again:

There are no real reasons why anything happens the way it does.

Just theory after theory after theory; wild guess,

enigma, riddle, phantasm. A drop of dew, lightning, a bubble.

endless speculation; apparitions of Truth, the worldly dissolution

of faith into lies and lies into nonsense and nonsense into nihilism

and nihilism into war and then: daisies sprout on your summery Grave.

Daisies sprout, like the tongue of a clown.

Graffiti licking our bones. Eyes of subconcious entities

magnified by the Eternal Spectre of Death and phantasmagoric

daydreams of doubt.

The daydream;

Think of the Moon Landing and you think of the Eagle.

Archangels,

a footprint, a flag, the endless curiosity of the precision Machine

Supercomputing the Spiderweb,

reverse engineering the Human Soul.

Every grain of Sand unlocks another potential

Shangri La. How many Woodstocks can you have on the tip of a Pin?

Welcome: The Apex of Western Civilization? The Nadir of Austerity.

Dissolving into Nihilistic overtures of this styrofoam mise en scene

day by day, you conjure up the burning of the Rainforest,

your own face: a silver Spoon in the night sky.

Sturgeons swimming like clouds.

A styrofoam cup in the grass of the park : and the world is destroyed.

Think of nothing. Mantras of Unfinished Words.

Sleep in the existential fever of the here and Now.

Find the Om. The resonance.

The endless daydream of the commerical unreal.

The comitragic moment: the convergence of all parallel lines:

You are sleepwalking through ... Manhattan???

Could be,you are somewhere.

You can hear your Mother calling.

Fifth Avenue undulates with incarnations of statue faced

Sybils bathed in klieg lights of Heaven. Crazy men selling Rolexes.

Tourists like the Brady Bunch in the belly of the whale.

There are Greek debutantes whirling like porcelain dolls

at the end of the Street made of Nothingness.

On the roof of the Trump Tower Building,

an Eagle's eyrie echos with the nursery rhymes of Samsara.

Life after the Daydream arrived.

God's flesh glows hot, a ventriloquist's mouth full of roses like the skeletons of mimes.

You fall, slipping into the subterranean labyrinth of the Ballerina where She is waiting.

Nijinksy, the Russian SEER. And Her Eyes, like Dorian Gray.

Suspended disbelief ---

The devil, She says: is buried in communion wafers burning in the Great City of Hell.

St. Augustine, you know: is lost inside the Mainframe of Limbo, is swallowed by sound of the last word rippling across his Mother's sunburnt lips.

Seven Chinese brothers swallowing the Ocean.

From inside the calculator,

The hearts of a dozen Nuns churn

with the confessions of painters in desperate need of an exorcist.

Hieronymous Bosch goes to Disneyworld. Details at 10.

Ten trillion worlds are simultaneously crashing through the heat shield of her skin.

Zephyrs of infernal orgasms trip around the freckled stairwell of her spine.

human suffering glows like star borne candy on the red hot tongue of her infernal wisdom.

on the edge of death's anvil, Her male heart is the wind tunnel of accelerating tragedy.

She is rage of the star drunk aphid, howling in goldmines of daisy fueled thought hospitals. A UFO nests in the eyes of the Peyote King humming silently in the Cathedral of her soul - expanding vagina.

architectures of cubist harmonies echo in the movements of God down 5th avenue.

In the wilderness of those fingerprints, she discovers the interference pattern of a dolphin's song, resonating like Mnemosyne's memory with a

trillion frequencies, time itself turning neologos andante while the stoplight burns green from yellow husks of incomplete redness.

She suddenly realizes, like the feathered serpent, the unbridled fauna of the Yucatan peninsula escaping from her skin in beads of transubstantiating perspiration.

God's tongue trips into waterfalls of cobra venom, blood from Picasso's palette dripping into in this zoological discotheque.

***

A series of wild crucifixes, question marks, Flowers of Life,

living hieroglyphics, pentagrams ---

symbols of ancient mysterious orders

suddenly

jitterbug --- waltz --- tango, watusi into being ---

as the supra-logical operators

of the God of Transubstanting Mysteries

--- every whirling syllable of their time

a musical prayer of mathematical precision giving birth to

ghost after ghost

across realms of flesh, into the thought of the thought of the thought of

a Hurricane of Souls that exists in only in the multiple galaxies of her

single pulsing heart.

The Seahorse yawns.

Moment by moment, the starlight

responds in subsonic thrushes of wish upon wish upon wish coming true;

elephantine footsteps breed soft Towers of Light in the Night,

out from inside the emptiness of the Western Apocalypse,

--- here in the cosmic entropy ---

where the human heart

is infected by a nocturnal sheen of Sufi footsteps,

the Manichean heresies.. the Christian poetry and

The language

of the Dream Thief;

convert the soul into the prisons of Pure Verb. Congregations

of Syntax,

melodies of thought that transpose the flesh from endless thought

to yellow flickers, eyelids into rainbows, light upon light racing

into strange tangled knots of human wisdom.

On the Horizon, the Secret Society is forging it's future;

psychedelic overtures to Genesis, Golgotha, the Book of Revelations

turning over and over page after page in the Eyes of the Knights.

Far from this parade of Western Skull and Bones ---

in the Star system of Aldebaraan,

the vagina of Heaven is swilling nectar from the eyes of sleeping seahorses.

The hurricane Mother laughs in her grave.

Relic photons spill from the pores of her skin,

each burst of light a surging thrust of the Codex of Infinite

lust. A tunnel of desire opens in her arteries: blood cells

spin in retrograde motion with a white magic sea foam into cresting whitecaps of the leukocytes of heaven's wounded nucleus.

The wounds of God begin describing themselves. From a thousand miles away, Osiris calculates the machinations of the nemesis,

Set, in a mirror forged by the endless sunlight writhing on the desert floor. The leopardine Pharoah falls through

the moonlight across a rainforest canopy haunted by

gibbons with eyes that blink off and on in the computers

of the Nile River.

Eyeless beings made of fire and smoke

paint the wood of her skull in tragic spell binding hues.

The girl made of warped gravity and lost information tumbles along the beach.

Gypsies gather in ecosystems of probability curves.

Fears born in the calculus of rage transform human faces into Gordian knots of doubt.

"Light is alive" she whispers.

Her nostrils flare into gasping lacunae.

A single unit of her breath sails into the Imperfect Void.

Her worst fear has come true; the Earth is not the Earth;

the Planet is the Womb of God.

She is drifting from Sphere to Sphere. She turns her attention towards her Mother's womb. She remembers the graffiti of Hell.

The stars, they chanted:

are the last thoughts of madmen,

in permanent revolt. The rebellion of the Wounded Christ.

Poem by poem, as the poems twirled through a puppet filled sky, the clouds rehearsed the shadow play of heaven's

strange tango in the dark bowels of Hell.

Nightmares flew like heartbroken Ouija boards in the death chambers of her prison shaped heart.

A million bumblebees breathed rare perfumes through a world built by exotic pinecones breeding miracles of badger magic.

The soul- forest slipped into the mountains of

transcendental energy. She wept in a dissonant silence, the sound of her throat gurgling like a fountain of endless wisdom.

A flame colored thundercloud born on the tip of Mount Everest spins toward the stratosphere on ions of snow leopard dreams.

On the day she was born, the walls of the universe exploded outward into a tapestry complex equations.

She laughed again.

It was adrenaline surrendering to the sweet scent

of christian voodoo.

Prototypical enzymes singing pagan harmonies.

She would never be prepared for the last glance skyward;

graveyard mantras of imaginary gurus hovered in

Japanese choral spirals, each golden love note

more perfect and gentle than the next.

Her skin became the palace of Universal emptiness.

Plunging into the brightest light since the beginning of time,

a mythical beast developed wings the color of St. Augustine's tears.

And soon the breath of Lazarus,

caked with dust motes and gold filigree, escaped from the mausoleum in a scintilla of everlasting joy.

The music of the spheres sweltered in the arboretum like rhododendrons humming subsonic rumors.

And when he died, Platonic geometries burned his corpse into a pool of mystery. His dream kept moving.

A velvet haze of carousels spun like gazebos in the clockwork castle of human consciousness.

The galaxy is a gargantuan mill, grinding out the mathematical grist of the cosmic Banshee's first nocturnal howl

of whispering antipathy.

Gaseous rumors of the Neptunian apocalypse permeate the brainstem of iguanas in Patagonia.

She trips into an ovary of the first God.

An unholy earth swarms with mechanical songbirds swarming through fields of antennas glowing

like the fingertips of the Machine God,

deep on the Suburban Golgotha. The oasis explodes into a million invertebrate Hiroshimas.

Light bulbs begin to burst, singing the heat death of God, Salvation and what comes after: infinity, INRI ;

the Birth of the Light in the Heart of the Android.

***

IN THE ASYLUM of UNPARANOID APPARITIONS:

Jaguars lurk in Cloudy parallelograms of Breath,

poised like twilight where incubating kabuki octopi sleep ...

the uncreated creatures that temporarily exist in the spiral spirits of

vanishing point phantasmagoria, extrasolar apparitions ---

moving through the rendezvous of skin

in trillions of trillions of ordinary people like the seven languages of Time,

turning wild in footsteps through the starlit embers of the the Night --

strange serendipitous felines whose whiskers whisk

triskadekaphobic lullabies

to the fireflies suspended in a willow tree near nothingness

--- leaving the Madhouse Queen:

Mary Magdalene -- pregnant with Mystery, nesting restfully

in the Doctor Magician's top hat --- weeping lilacs

curled in the shade of a broken sun, sweeping adjectives of perfect insanity

into the soil of entropic numbers and the holiness of their own unimaginable fear.

the Emperor's embryo, a pyramid eyed Houdini

leaps out of the nucleus in the center of the Nurses forehead, his face

turning blue from the candlelight in huge swathes of dying love and broken souls, memories that beach themselves on his imagination.

His eyes fall into syzygy around the denouement of her Immortal Soul.

a flock of self Hypnotizing birds circles the 9th circle of this Unfinished Heaven:

echoing, echo, echos in momentary transmigrations of birds that make birds crazy

with their birdliness, circling the cky

raining leukocytes of black swans mated to each other in stunning permutations of the endless

supercomputing mysteries of the delusional God.

Eggs full of fish eyes crush the world with unfinished worlds.

He and She became enlightened.

The Gold dust of hell is forged in wicked eccentricities,

boiling into the winded breath of free tailed bats

who, with each recitation of the echolocating thieves cant

sweep down onto the tongue of the Great Magician Houdini

swaying into and out of Purgatory

from a thousand lifetimes away,

having fallen off the cross, swallowed the Jupiter Moons,

fall asleep in the rainforest where the mushrooms exhale fluorescent light

until heaven arrives, dying a trillion times,

nursing the curiosity of God,

dancing with a trillion pentagons trapped in the Real World.

Someone whispers the Secret name.

Shame and Shadow fuelthe path of the intricate damnations.

The procession of the Equinoxes swang the rhinoceros around a starry ballroom of lucidity, turning the dance of the Elohim into the avenues of the Undiscovered abyss.

There were huge gasps in the starlight spilling from the mouths of men with no soul, no hope, no love no truth, nothing except broken motion and broken memories.

Chains and locks and endless filigree of time bleached superstitions, the rotting husks of elephants,

insane laughter rotating in the spitfire gaze & decayed teeth of madmen,

a dark Luciferian lifelessness whispered by the void

into the pauper's collage of her cheekbones.

And She trembled in the wind

like a portrait of Dorian Gray

suspended in the sky full of roses glowing upon werewolf hearts

each memory lapsing into photosynthetic expositions of brilliantly forgotten emptiness.

white Ballerinas gasping for breath in the

enchantment of the Wintery Sun.

A Seahorse spinning in the Eye of the One True God.

Ecstatic languages fired the orphan's wisdom in the atmosphere;

nightshade, mandrake,

the perfumes of bewitched jungles and forests full of strange Spirit - gathering isotopes

of the divinity; each danced in the dark rooted permutations of her vaginal membranes.

One by one the caskets lifted into the sky. The graveyard became a Poet's discotheque.

Dandelions balanced themselves in the darkness of an old woman's shadow at perpetual midnight.

Quietly, with huge breaths, and glimpses of the internal configurations of madness, the soul swirled like a circus clown around a strange machine made of bifurcating fascinations.

The roots of heaven flamed in gargantuan embers through a sky perfumed with the fleshy paradox of God.

What should the Paradox do, but seek itself in the depths of the starry void, uncontrolled by anything except a pulse and hue and wailing of dark scarlet doves, imaginary at best, devised by some evolutionary ploy to recover a sense of divine mystery?

Madmen, laughing off key. A city street full crawling with bloody fists, whispering suns blowing down temples of flesh,

lost in a roadside Cabaret, each dancer flirting like fish with a fish hook, the world outside in permanent revolt against it's own axiomatic dalliance with freedom.

On Golgotha where her DNA exploded in Hieroglyphics, the ghastly Verb of Godlike fantasies crawled toward the Manhattan of her deoxyribonucleic acid,

She opened her mouth and began singing the Tarot of Infinite Love over and over through a sky rippling with void like hymens.

One by one the ravens pecked her flesh and misquoted Shakespeare down scintillating beaks made of alchemists bones.

The night began to trickle down the street in a carcinogenic perfume.

The Vagabond Fool began twirling in Sufi ecstasy in front of the madhouse gates.

She approached the edge of tomorrow with the tranquility of Mary Magdalene during the intergalactic rape of the Venusian Lagoon.

A thousand heresies were born in the manifold coils of her eyes,

envelopes of electrons

as she lay on the ceiling of the Universe somewhere near the apex of

the Tunguskan Sky.

***

The binary code hymen of the post -- molecular void ---

a fantasia of Mount Mandelbrot, breeding holistic perfumes,

triangles of memory whirling in the gold dust of inanimate

consciousness

surrounded the Byzantine echo chambers in the reverie of the

dying Queen's subatomic fevers.

The labyrinth of God's delusion was made holy and sacred. Nobody

would ever leave without being born.

Again and again, the lesson of the Wound would be learned.

It is the Museum of this Heaven, she cried with a broken tongue; the

heart combines it's suffering with blood; and she rushes towards the

edge of the Stage, in the Theatre of Discontinued Dreams --- with a

distorted pulse in her heart.

A single pulse that lasts forever.

No change for a trillion trillion years. Just an earth stopping

thud.

And silence. And then. And then. And then. The Vampire arrives.

And then She dissolves in a burst of white noise, her skin reflecting

blueness of the kaleidoscopic refuge of Lord Buddha-Christ in it's

pearly oceanic depths.

Her skin flowers in pearls like shark tears. Pearls like Question Marks.

Pearls like seahorse tambourines. Pearls like divine testicles.

And the ocean whispered, a sonic burst of the ultrasonic bass that

taught the sky to be blue.

I, trapped in the glass of the Museum, surrendered a thousand strange

moments to the Machine of Inhuman Wisdom.

Violinesque. Doremefasolatido.

She listened with the ear of a runaway vine, every petal trembling

with oscillations of love and beauty.

Our tongues became one, finally resisting the boundary urge. We spoke

like strange puppets, animated only by silence and the whim of the

madmen on the edge of the anti particles of the phenomenological

void.

Then, it happened; a tribe of Unicorns woke from the liquidity of the

Netherworld. A symphony of atomic swarming messiah eyes flew in

discord towards the Unicorn soul. The Unicorn brain shot golden

thought fantasias through it's horn; a thousand wicked fairies chased

each other into the fairy tale of the Imperceivable Void.

And then She arrived. Followed by trillions of hearses, recombining

eye into eye, Wearing the face of the inevitable Godot, singing the

world into sleep as she appeared.

One by one, the creatures of the eternal ether slipped into mortal

slumber as her footsteps tripped gaily on the gossamer earth.

Soon, the creatures of the world were locked in the perfection of

sleep. They ate the memories of dog barking tulips. They drank the

antimatter ocean. They loved each other through the connectivity of a

dark and brilliant dream with a trillion episodes.

They would never need to wake again. The Queen of Unanswerable

Questions had arrived.

And as her DNA whispered parables of future heresies of Skin and

wisdom from cell to cell, the Cosmos unlocked it's fiery tapestry of

weirdness and placed a dozen golden turtles at the foot of the

gravity throne.

She, the Triple Souled Queen of the Unknowable World, just beyond the

Wilderness of Endless Wind, flew into a rage full of enchanted

atmospheres.

each feathered Eye, written in gold with the poems of Quetzlcoatl,

crawled towards the soft lights of Bethlehem, tracing footsteps into

the coral, where the anemone blushed --- each a stranger strange

color than the exotic whale's eye of the first.

***

From God's thought whitened eyebrows sprout candelabras of memories,

with distant heaven cycling in the soul darkened jungle,

a million bird - Priests assemble in a flock of unholy colors;

purple-scarlet peacocks, golden black faced eagles,

crows like coal miner's eyes, tanagers as red as St. Valentines tongue,

nightingales cresting in tranquility of jonquils and moonlit

Serengeti's of fever and endless light;

She breeds her Soul across the world, erupting in Theatres of

post larval consciousness; tarot card hearted astronauts whirling

with dog faced ballerinas; soldiers sleeping in the eggshells of

their Japanese UFO; light beams plunging

into the Skin of certain Kabuki eyed

Extraterrestrial Queens,

shadow plays of instantaneous love making on the forest floor,

the night bleeding rain,

the rain bleeding it's prisoners- convicts of sorrowful refrain,

whispering train songs and broken melodies,

overtures to the Birds, Spanish Thespians crawling across the roof

of your mouth. Phosphorescentg children waking in worlds

of instantaneous blackness,

as the Infinitesimal architectures of mystery erupt in the

exoskeletons of heaven;

visions of apocalypse paint themselves in the skin of the extraterrestrial priestess

who falls asleep singing the name of God in the twilight

above the world made of nothing but Optical Illusions.

A sudden cruel hush of liquid joules

erupts on the African Savannah. The Yawn of God ignites in the wildebeest's shadow.

A tramp bathed in fire circles the void in a strange drizzle of light.

A question mark arrives in a hurricane of purple temptations.

Rubies die in unquiet puzzles of darkness. Emeralds leap toward the belly of the moon.

The prayers of the wicked lift like love songs into the ears of the Nightshade and Confessor of Wicked Professions.

Amidst the lilies of the field, the laughter of the undead crushes the hearts of the Living.

***

The binary code hymen of the post -- molecular void ---

a fantasia of Mount Mandelbrot, breeding holistic perfumes,

triangles of memory whirling in the gold dust of inanimate

consciousness

surrounded the Byzantine echo chambers in the reverie of the

dying Queen's subatomic fevers.

The labyrinth of God's delusion was made holy and sacred. Nobody

would ever leave without being born.

Again and again, the lesson of the Wound would be learned.

It is the Museum of this Heaven, she cried with a broken tongue; the

heart combines it's suffering with blood; and she rushes towards the

edge of the Stage, in the Theatre of Discontinued Dreams --- with a

distorted pulse in her heart.

A single pulse that lasts forever.

No change for a trillion trillion years. Just an earth stopping

thud.

And silence. And then. And then. And then. The Vampire arrives.

And then She dissolves in a burst of white noise, her skin reflecting

blueness of the kaleidoscopic refuge of Lord Buddha-Christ in it's

pearly oceanic depths.

Her skin flowers in pearls like shark tears. Pearls like Question Marks.

Pearls like seahorse tambourines. Pearls like divine testicles.

And the ocean whispered, a sonic burst of the ultrasonic bass that

taught the sky to be blue.

I, trapped in the glass of the Museum, surrendered a thousand strange

moments to the Machine of Inhuman Wisdom.

Violinesque. Doremefasolatido.

She listened with the ear of a runaway vine, every petal trembling

with oscillations of love and beauty.

Our tongues became one, finally resisting the boundary urge. We spoke

like strange puppets, animated only by silence and the whim of the

madmen on the edge of the anti particles of the phenomenological

void.

Then, it happened; a tribe of Unicorns woke from the liquidity of the

Netherworld. A symphony of atomic swarming messiah eyes flew in

discord towards the Unicorn soul. The Unicorn brain shot golden

thought fantasias through it's horn; a thousand wicked fairies chased

each other into the fairy tale of the Imperceivable Void.

And then She arrived. Followed by trillions of hearses, recombining

eye into eye, Wearing the face of the inevitable Godot, singing the

world into sleep as she appeared.

One by one, the creatures of the eternal ether slipped into mortal

slumber as her footsteps tripped gaily on the gossamer earth.

Soon, the creatures of the world were locked in the perfection of

sleep. They ate the memories of dog barking tulips. They drank the

antimatter ocean. They loved each other through the connectivity of a

dark and brilliant dream with a trillion episodes.

They would never need to wake again. The Queen of Unanswerable

Questions had arrived.

And as her DNA whispered parables of future heresies of Skin and

wisdom from cell to cell, the Cosmos unlocked it's fiery tapestry of

weirdness and placed a dozen golden turtles at the foot of the

gravity throne.

She, the Triple Souled Queen of the Unknowable World, just beyond the

Wilderness of Endless Wind, flew into a rage full of enchanted

atmospheres.

each feathered Eye, written in gold with the poems of Quetzlcoatl,

crawled towards the soft lights of Bethlehem, tracing footsteps into

the coral, where the anemone blushed --- each a stranger strange

color than the exotic whale's eye of the first.

***

The binary code hymen of the post -- molecular void ---

a fantasia of Mount Mandelbrot, breeding holistic perfumes,

triangles of memory whirling in the gold dust of inanimate

consciousness

surrounded the Byzantine echo chambers in the reverie of the

dying Queen's subatomic fevers.

The labyrinth of God's delusion was made holy and sacred. Nobody

would ever leave without being born.

Again and again, the lesson of the Wound would be learned.

It is the Museum of this Heaven, she cried with a broken tongue; the

heart combines it's suffering with blood; and she rushes towards the

edge of the Stage, in the Theatre of Discontinued Dreams --- with a

distorted pulse in her heart.

A single pulse that lasts forever.

No change for a trillion trillion years. Just an earth stopping

thud.

And silence. And then. And then. And then. The Vampire arrives.

And then She dissolves in a burst of white noise, her skin reflecting

blueness of the kaleidoscopic refuge of Lord Buddha-Christ in it's

pearly oceanic depths.

Her skin flowers in pearls like shark tears. Pearls like Question Marks.

Pearls like seahorse tambourines. Pearls like divine testicles.

And the ocean whispered, a sonic burst of the ultrasonic bass that

taught the sky to be blue.

I, trapped in the glass of the Museum, surrendered a thousand strange

moments to the Machine of Inhuman Wisdom.

Violinesque. Doremefasolatido.

She listened with the ear of a runaway vine, every petal trembling

with oscillations of love and beauty.

Our tongues became one, finally resisting the boundary urge. We spoke

like strange puppets, animated only by silence and the whim of the

madmen on the edge of the anti particles of the phenomenological

void.

Then, it happened; a tribe of Unicorns woke from the liquidity of the

Netherworld. A symphony of atomic swarming messiah eyes flew in

discord towards the Unicorn soul. The Unicorn brain shot golden

thought fantasias through it's horn; a thousand wicked fairies chased

each other into the fairy tale of the Imperceivable Void.

And then She arrived. Followed by trillions of hearses, recombining

eye into eye, Wearing the face of the inevitable Godot, singing the

world into sleep as she appeared.

One by one, the creatures of the eternal ether slipped into mortal

slumber as her footsteps tripped gaily on the gossamer earth.

Soon, the creatures of the world were locked in the perfection of

sleep. They ate the memories of dog barking tulips. They drank the

antimatter ocean. They loved each other through the connectivity of a

dark and brilliant dream with a trillion episodes.

They would never need to wake again. The Queen of Unanswerable

Questions had arrived.

And as her DNA whispered parables of future heresies of Skin and

wisdom from cell to cell, the Cosmos unlocked it's fiery tapestry of

weirdness and placed a dozen golden turtles at the foot of the

gravity throne.

She, the Triple Souled Queen of the Unknowable World, just beyond the

Wilderness of Endless Wind, flew into a rage full of enchanted

atmospheres.

each feathered Eye, written in gold with the poems of Quetzlcoatl,

crawled towards the soft lights of Bethlehem, tracing footsteps into

the coral, where the anemone blushed --- each a stranger strange

color than the exotic whale's eye of the first.

***

Fractals of the I Ching,

dancing like God's forgotten children in the wild grass;

where the Sun has tricked a flotilla of polka dots into

the quadratic equation of a sparrow's eyes,

and the katydids elope on tightrope wires into and through

her nine hundred and twenty three freckles.

As the universe lurked in her heart like a broken boomerang; She drank the bumblebee's psychic poetry,

and turning,

She turned into the sunlight through the turning of turnings turning turning on the City of the Empty Never Ever Neverywhere.

The Street is a goldmine of human psychosis.

Delusions pool like thunderclouds around a Sundial,

mouths bursting into the strange theatre of disembodied Mimes.

Isis, Osiris, Set, Horus, Ra, Amon -- flow down the street

in parallel lines,

into temples burning with the scent of undead dandelions

Then: Zeus discovered the Television Set.

A heat seeking mandala

began laughing in Buddha's footsteps.

Tendrils of the leviathan lift her flesh out from the Center of Time,

poring down her skin,

searching in the quantum Pentagon

of her Neurons for the lost Quatrain of Nostradamus' undiscovered century.

Rainbows dance like Russian ballerinas as the non euclidean

rendezvous of Polka dots crest in emerald glissandos

down the hollows of the human eyeball.

The summer grass suddenly remembered winter, and smiled.

God became God by becoming the Opposite of God,

moving in one dimension across the desert sky,

until: the crocodile's ghost, trapped in the aborigine's fingernail

inhaled a prophetic wind from deep on the banks of the Nile.

Perhaps it was the Mississipi.

Or the creek down the road. Your jugular vein?

The sidewalk full of forgotten periwinkle blossoms.

On any occassion: The night sky was everywhere.

The Eye opened into the eye of infinite openings.

Doorways from the beginning of time into the end of the beginning of time.

One by one. Switches, neurons, gates, sodium ions,

acrobats of the Infinity Asylum,

swimming through oceans of neurotransmitters,

transmitting endless parables in

intricate regression that lead to the place where the spirits of Max Planck and Albert Einstein

were sailing strange ships with photon sails

into the watery heart of the Andromedan tide.

Disguised as Edgar Allen Poe and Virginia Woolf.

Meaningless apparitions of strangers howl,

turning hoteliers from ALpha Centauri through pages of unwritten

lives.

Neptunian Frog Merchants gamble on the edge of the Garden,

lost in the phantasms of the Last Sermon on Earth.

The entire pantheon of history

traipses from neuron to neuron in the wink of the dragon fly's eye.

Windowpanes burst open like the folded manifold of a scarlet memory. The leviathan sangs.

Earthquakes of cognitive dissonance;

Her flesh flickering with chimeras of unfinished thought.

In one fell swoop, she turned the paper cup in her left hand into a Spanish nightingale and sent it flying towards the eyes of the woman planting flowers on the third floor,

where the balcony ignited in phosphorescent flowers.

She began flying. Over the City, into the dream,

An ancient secret passed from her eyes on the way Out.

In that first final moment, She knew.

Something was happening Something was moving

She was swimming above the City of the April Night,

moving like the Ghost of Godot,

careeeeeeeeeeening into the maelstrom of human flesh out of flesh.

Machine by Machine; her left eye began twitching.

She began to feel vastly unlimited.

Her mouth turned into a wishing well full of diodes and dwarves and golden nuggets and uranium and a tongue that grew like a vine,

howling post modern syzygies of subsonic vowels.

As the woman with the paper cup turned to witness the rising of the Flood, the remote control bumblebee landed on her forehead.

Everything became frozen and unstoppable. An ambulance arrived in the pool of sunlight and

bumblebee wings, drifting through the April Sky,

from Fool's Day into the Apocalypse, like the magic

of Mindfulness inside the Honeycomb of the Pantocrator's Neurons.

The children of God began removing the Souls from the atmosphere.

One could smell the night.

It sang, it caroomed like a freight train headed from hell into the wild meadows of unchangeable heaven.

A strange siren made an old man's footsteps stutter on the street. It was like he was dancing, but only to the

song that was written by a deaf man for a blind God.

Over and over, for twelve million lifetimes, this scene repeated itself. Time and time again, like a fractal of inconstant recursion:

Oscillations of the Grasshopper's eyes trembled in her freckles. A bumblebee flew into a window. It was a remote control bee.

The woman who was planting flowers in her flowerbox on the third floor

began to sing Kalinka.

The woman fell, the Skyline disappeared, and a trillion UFO's rose into the Starlight

at the same time, nothing happened.

Her first and strangest thought was a post modern, Wiccan prayer. A million freckles splayed themselves across the evening sky in trembling legends of the sunlight of the beginning nocturne.

And as they were born again and again, in the green house where the isotopes of God lay dreaming of the museum of dark matter,

glowing as shadows fell in strobes and vines of Green Speech,

like that fabled haunt where God walked eye to eye with Adam and Eve -

-- a gathering of angelic embryos began

circling the vortices of Shangri La ---

ten trillion light years away from that memory of Lao Tzu

discovering the I Ching

sleeping like an unborn Buddha in a hurricane of silence

trapped in the Neurons of a Cassowary.

***

Hidden inside the nightingale's jewelry box, a

pinecone is singing Tales of it's unborn mother

through enchanted syllogisms of non local interconnectedness.

From ten thousand light years away, Father nightingale's neutrinos

assemble gleam after gleam in the mirror image of broken

symmetry.

The nightingale's Unborn Mother

bursts into applause to hear the sound of her star-making Voice.

It is the wisdom of noetic eunoia. Beautiful Thinking.

From deep inside the Forest of Infinite Strangeness,

I sense the God of unborn beings

gossiping like Rumi's eyelashes

around the trembling kingdom of a red summer rose.

Radioactive nuclei light the candlewick eyes of this enchanted Forest,

until sheets of papyrus faced animalia flutter around a

forbidden moment, rising in hieroglyphic delirium towards

ribbons of consciousness unwinding in the ionosphere.

The lions mouth is full of erotic surrealist whispers.

The century turns, cities of flame, boiling with Orphan's tears. Her face

is a mask of perpetual misunderstanding.

Moment by moment, his heart blows glass cruciforms

into phantomesque curvatures

whose faces roll in the twilight towards the prison where love died.

A crucified albatross swims into the June sky.

In the dream War, the Shakespeareans have

cast spells of Madness like King Midas' eyes.

Ten thousand light years away,

the ten million brains is swell with the rumors of creation.

a Television explodes with the wounded dream

of machine powered history.

A strange man arrives, his hearse filled with ruby crickets and bottles of

vagabond wine.

Salvation is instantaneous & irreversible.

She sleeps in the furnace of her Grandmother's broken heart.

She is the Girl with Ten Faces and is nowhere to be seen.

This is the science of

the ultimate disaster. The wisdom of the Serpent's upside down mouth.

The chrysalis unwraps the feathery pillow of it's inhuman heart,

leaving the world naked

like the Old Man's soul,

mysterious beings writhing on the Ceiling of the Convenience

Store.

An old man converses with the Queen of Spellbound Ballerinas.

It is a normal Friday, somewhere in the World between Worlds.

The salt rains a codice of angelic wisdom into pools of sparrow flesh.

Ballerino Vladimir Nijinsky appears in a pirouette on the edge of my cup.

The Secret Society marches into the Vault of Yesterday,

charming the clouds into an

ocean churning with Van Gogh's palette of unreal hues.

one by one, his delusions of Grandeur come true.

A flame of unsung psalms burns in the particle accelerator of her

heart.

She sleeps. Her feet twinkle in cemetery dew.

As the quarks of her fingertips dissolve into the ghostlike

festival of the Infinite Incarnations of a point singlarity

in the Sorceress' heart

her voice erupts in the teardrops of terrorists, phantasms of

minor keys rippling into Tchaikovsky's weatherproof stamen.

Night into night, multiplying by infinity, her skin swells into

fruitlike embers, swirling with the love poems of strawberry faced

cherubim.

***

When the bumblebee's eye constructs a Fable

in crucibles of Brownian motion,

where at the intersection of the Differentiation of the Voids,

in a series of non local event horizons,

down through the Fugue of a Thousand Variables,

a nucleotide glissando ignites in

the synchronicity of the Seven Million Seraphim

and, like the Undiscovered Question Itself,

--- the Void finds an anonymous being

balancing an allegory

in the strange attractor of

God's infinitely complex memory.

Isotopes of the imaginary imagination

break into the Song of Transubstantiating Nonesuch.

Ten thousand light years deep into her cellular nuclei,

a neutron of the Seraphic phosphor

synchronizes into a labyrinth of undead blueprints

that whirl on zephyrs of Id, down neuronal dendrites

into the synaptic cleft sepulchre, the span of wild voidlike beings

on the Heaven of Unearthly Harlequins,

until the moment of imperfect uncertainty when

tongue borne prophecies froth over on tsunamis

at the Edge of Time, bursting in radioactive sea bells

out of the curtains of an infinite curve, opening like the mouths of

newborn poets

into a fevered burst of the made in Gondwanaland, light-bending

holographic raindrops.

Her flesh is a theatre of antedeluvian water lilies

evolving out of the prayers of unborn wild things

fueling the fires of Limbo with clouds of boolean prayer ---

intersections where the first Human eye

arrives on the precipice of Light

trembling in violet frondescence and perpetual denouement,

spinning into the logic of uncontrollable insects

exotic drunkards, disembodied Nuns

into circuses of coincidence in the country vineyard,

where the flesh of imperfect strangers

exhales minuets of salvation into the chromosomal furies of

the God that cannot die.

Pandemonium breaches the Void, moment by moment

billowing into membranes of paradox,

slumbering in lost prayers and the isolated quark

hovering in the the twilight of Orpheus where

an archangel nests in the synagogue of heliotropic sonatas.

The Logos of Glossolalia crescendoes around the fractalline lacunae of indeterminate still points,

Her Skin curving into inkblots of Shangri La,

splendors racing into the first map of Nowhere ---

a tattoo of Terra Incognita, tripping into the fingerprints of God,

as Sea Lion eyelashes

whisk into psychedelic sea-foam across the Minkowski space of Light,

every twentieth century writhing on the

crest of an electromagnetic wave of Love's haunted fable.

In the cosines of Springtime, where the wet grass grows

like fairies in a birthday cake,

the boundary threshold explodes into hallucinatory palindromes that

orbit her skull in the escape velocity of the Real World.

Vortices of starry thunders twirl like Himalayan thunderbolts

into the crevices of her wine glass colored abdomen.

On the edge of the night --- there is a jugular vein ---

writhing in colors of the flooded forest floor

twisting in a byzantine labyrinth of feral Luciferian cruciforms

out, brachiating throughout the shadowy regress of the Louvre;

where time burns the eyes of her grasshopper ancestors

into subterranean symbols

until they ignite in apparitions of sudden blue thought gazelles.

She dreams of the unknowable stone unbalanced in Gods' heart,

the ballast of Eternity,

plunging through the undefined questions pirouetting

on the Philosopher's tastebuds.

There, in the jeweled slipstreams of neurotransmitters

lurks the ghost of Hieronymous Bosch: his eyelids burning with quadratic equations;

sleeping inside the loopland of recursive Nirvanas,

his paintbrush weeps the tears of boiled tomatoes and a

symphony of photosynthetic conversations held

between Celtic Saints and paint by number Birds of paradise.

Her lips drip honeybees into gardens of wild styrofoam.

At the bottom of the Universe, a praying mantis reincarnates into the

roulette wheeled Las Vegas dawn.

Some strange aberration of God's imagination elopes on cat's whiskers through the labyrinth of her mitochondria,

where the Buddha of infinitely finite Buddhas has scattered miracle punctuation into the DNA

of the Bodhissatvas of America,

a trillion graveyard beings racing on roller coasters into

the Land of the Invisible Eye

the Eyeless Eye that Sees everything except itself.

Pulse by pulse convulses in heartbeats on the Mandelbrot sequence,

the purgatories churning in her skin into the space time

continuum in the way star gazing enzymes find the Holy Spirit

moving through fisherman's toes at dawn in the Tahitian mud.

Her skin is the color of Hollywood gossip

and the wild incomprehensibility of algebraic notation,

simmering like a tear filled cauldron with the

thunderous tripping of galactic inversions,

soul after soul colliding on the windowsills of

probability gardens

haunted by lycanthropic shadows and self replicating quasicrystals

drawn into the cubist mood curvature

of a brain painting itself empty with perfumes of the Muses of

Sapphic Belladonna.

She elopes into this wildfire, whirling in unfinished

love as the vine of heaven wraps itself around the fleshy chalice,

rippling into unbroken rhyme,

the polysyllabic tears of God's holy despair.

Albatross eyes flower in strange permutations of the number Pi deep inside the arctic chasms of her epidermis.

Her flesh is a larvae of wet stone,

lichens shimmering in the dungeon of the lunatics heart, melting

in revolutions of thoughts not initiated by mankind.

In that bizarre museum between her legs, she discovers the stochastic harmonies of infinity;

She remembers the nursery room of Edgar Allen Poe,

where alien dreamships dropped flowery bells into the Guernica of

Picasso's bloodshot eyes.

Dying insects move through her throat on strange gypsy footsteps,

the choreographed candlelight of some unstoppable heaven whirling in the

ionic hemiquavers of her Grandmother's frontal cortex.

Wildly innocent, God found God alive in the love fields of God's elemental

sorrow as rain drops sought the Mother of their original face in the blueness of that bowl of soup

whose wisdom

was found boiling on the stove where the chimney sweep weeps an alphabet of undiscovered religions.

In that single moment of the Universal collapse, the soot faced mannequin tap danced his thoughts, down, up, into the inside and across the porcelain plumes of her skin,

bringing the ellipses of subconscious syllogisms to a cresting crescent in that place where nobody ever thought to go.

She feels the stars swivel in the tips of her death wise capillaries.

In her elbow, the fairies converge, revealing the white hot ethers of Aldebaraan.

Alpha Centauri --- Cygnus the swan --- photon by photon, they dance in pointillism upon the triangles of her flesh,

transmuting palindromic spirits from the depths of the marrow of her bone

into the wind of the Serengeti, where wildebeast laugh in the trapezium of her Edenic dreamworld.

In this nocturne of negativity, like saliva from the angelic tongue -- they trip, fleet footed, fast, flowing, freedom seeking, into the Ballrooms and

Echo Chambers of the City of Self Assembling Daydreams

Under their feet, in the fast shadows of unfinished time, the dead philosopher forged his words into the architecture of the Book of the Dead.

A strange Angel, dialoguing the madness of Time in her Mother's ovaries sweeps her uterus open,

revealing whirlwinds of uncalculated logos.

She weeps potions of the venom of Angels,

the snowflake egos of infinite light.

Hour into hour, the wicked magic of the Otherworldly Otherworld curves

her flesh into blinding maelstroms of frenzied fairy tales

full of wicked peonies.

There are entire movies, fantasias, myths, churning in her Skin.

The White Coats capture her one night, balancing thunderclouds

on God's left kneecap

and throw her into the University of the Insane.

IN bed 967 of this Asylum,

a mohawked lunatic rises in a rage out of delta wave sleep,

hurling himself into the light and trembles like a ghost in the allegory of the Real World.

She is the Prisoner. She is the Free.

She is lost in the undiscovered country.

The holy fire of her consciousness rains down in broken words,

dissonant screams, languages of strange old women gathered by the fire,

their eyes turning colors into words, their hearts

pulsed by rhythms of the paradox that is not a paradox.

***

Like a newborn God balancing

a flock of dust motes on the edge of the kitchen windowsill

her face is a kaleidoscopic koan,

every pore swelling open with the

fevers of ten thousand undiscovered questions,

trembling penumbras of disbelief

--- glowing in her throat as it is slit by the sunlight,

revealing embryos upon embryos --

photons bursting with forgotten memories

into the atoms and the urgency of the endless motion of the air.

In the Cosmopolis of the Cemetery,

whispers of the pagan demi-urge

are raindrops made of Last Words

that fuel the Godlessness of God,

bringing magic antelopes to the fields of the empty heaven,

draped in fog, where the Gargoyles

guard the changing tide of Colors,

and the Priests of future Africas

wander the worlds of the arriving Machine.

mysterious women with beaks of stone

light the feathers of a

trillion bird like beings,

with blueness billlowing

with the blueness of blackbird eyes.

The Sailor flutters on electron zephyrs,

into the Sea,

where the Uncertainty of God

is an Ocean gurgling with the Prayers of the Medusa.

At the bottom of this Sea, where nothing

ever happens,

the quark is a prism of the Undreamable Eloquence

cascades of operatic syllogisms --

the life of the unexplored unconsciousness

churns into frothing enzymes of the immortal freedom

through the flesh of spinning mermaids,

the promenades of gamma rays

and the agony of night

that burst into nightmares,

crashing on the sea foam

like a leper's haunted heart,

the Kingdom of the Easter Kings who cannot remember

the hierarchy of the Fallen Earth

The ocean is a God of sound,

humming softly like Salome,

her body weeping wishes in the Shadow of Leviathan,

while the dark earth bursts into

raindrops of God's insanity,

like the

the tears of Christ

rising

through the flowery fists of the Garden of Gethsemane.

and

pressed against her broken heart

are the ballads of Western suffering,

poetry that falls like footsteps

through the Subways of 5th Avenue.

There is no way, they say: to resurrect the

permutations as it pirouettes

into the denouement of the perpetually dead.

The syllables gallop into the Soil, Story by Story racing into

vines of synchronicity --- the Undiscovered country

where hurricanes roll into corpuscular synergies of

neurotransmitters,

weeping the wine of ancient star faring mammals,

elixirs of the first eye ,

growing gardens of the crushed wing,

the haunted fall of katydids,

billowing nightshade of andromedan umbrellas,

the eyeless travail of

Alpha Centauri,

where the Cicadas ignite into the final memory of summer,

buzzing on the crested edge of thistles bathed in thunder,

the mirror image of some pagan mouth moving

in slow motion, down the lust of Unborn Beings

crashing like a shadow

into circles of ever darkening danger,

a dozen light years deep,

by the stadium where the babies weep.

And in the Cathedral of her consciousness,

the tastebuds boil wild syllables,

into paint by number mysteries,

chaotic fluctuations of the undiscovered number,

numbers rotating through the brainstem

of amphibious magicians

on fields of condensating lightbeams

that rise into the ionosphere

through landscapes made of nothing but

the logic of Greek turgor.

across vapid ballad of pantomime and pandemonium,

the erotic filigree of the infinite,

her newspaper skin bursting with the fables of endless vowels,

jewels that hum with Tahitian Parables,

Paul Gaugin burning in the crimson flood

until the Spanish nightingales flutter

into the curlicues of her heart,

where nuclei of dreamlike beings

is chanting Shantih Om.

elopements of white night,

fission and fusion, parasails of Einstein's memory

billowing into the hydrogen surf,

where her eyes roll backwards

through the nautilus shell

and the glassy sand glows with unlit angels,

castles of impermanence on

the beaches of the Ordinary World.

The flick of a lover's wrist

and her open hand

rises like a broken glass from the endless sand ---

saxophones of sunlight,

spilling blue notes into the mouth of the Moon that opens

and closes,

until the astronaut's eye explodes with the chrome of tranquility

Burning dandelions,

the sacred charge of butterflies

swindled into the winding road of

dirt and cobra pheremones,

soil burning like the endless thought arriving

on the Genie whirlwind of Hypnosis,

the night collapsing into the embouchure of an

old woman's starlit lungs.

I hear the mountain arriving

in the blackness of the murmur

of a human ear opening

like a stained glass door that becomes unfinished

in the house where noone goes.

the white rose flies

amongst the violet thunders,

quivering in the sleep fields of the blue vines,

weeping spitfire, glossolalic dew of

the temple of Easter constructed before time began,

where the three faced moon

becomes a Fairy Queen's eye.

rainbows made of black and white

turn in wild rivers through the preternatural void.

Her shoes glow like wet amphibians,

blessed with the stitch of singing monsters underfoot

crushing leaves, the clover green chimes of

lurking grass, bearing cups of the wine of chthonic postulates

and the fruits of some undiscovered country field,

where moving into landscapes of

the cambrian explosion

the carnival of uncreated beings

are trapped between heaven and hell,

like signatures of the nightmare

written

in forbidden haikus on the

bloodstained page of a Soldier's shrieking face.

A lunatic demiurge, sleeping on the sidewalk

explores the sudden changes of his atomic structure,

the Machines of Madness

sparkling in this dusk,

the wisdom of the Magic

that No One Understands.

Climbing, climbing, ballerinas into

heaven, maya:

transpositions of the animalian afterworld,

rippling into echoes, declensions of the signal

through the electromagnetic lie

Until the Rain that chases Methuselah across the centuries,

his broken wings curl like oak leaves

and the filigree of lost Eden,

cycling into Mont St. Michel,

the Manhattan sky burning like Da Vinci's palette,

with the trigonometers urge.

A closed eye erupts,

a trampoline of vaginal pomegranates,

surging with the undreamt smile

of an Orchid

He barked the lost word

the nocturne of madness,

his heart a fish of fire

swimming into the Chapel where the Green God prays to

the Verb of Danger spellbound in the flesh of Man.

A perilous fountain of fireworks,

the Universe begins to spin in a trillion trillion directions

at once,

simultaneity of fools

bringing the Sky into a climactic masquerade of madness

thrashing inThe eyes of the disembodied Angel,

her flesh is burning in the Real world

the broken magnets suspended in the candlelight

and the tongues of Queens of the Ancient Harbor,

feeding their memories into the hurricane of the

Congolese soul.

Where howls the the moon in wild charicatures

of Baba Yaga's phantom face

whistling,

endless refractions

dancing eye to eye as the Story of the Stories

bursts in the expository prologue of some

indescribable Love, a word of words,

delivering worlds across the bridge of Uncertainty,

wildfires nested in infinite regress,

where Magicians, Mothers, Madwomen,

spiral into harmonic envelopes around the seeds of

mysterious beings

coiled in the industrial strength grass.

A thousand paths, but only One Moon;

and every midnight the eyes of the Sleeping Beauty,

turning backwards into the cortex,

trace illuminations of the Otherworld

into the skulls of passing Orioles.

An Unknowable Unknown,

the wiccan love poem is in the making,

her kitchen a heartbeat,

tracing languages of Time into the Sea of Endless Beginnings

where of the Nightingales of Lyon

Live in Empty Nests,

on the edge of the Sea of Tranquility,

the moonlit children dancing

on the cresting serpent mounds, dragon's flesh,

Stonehenge igniting into the secrets of the lost silence

fluttering into the sky,

a miracle of the inversion of color,

the confetti in the Sky, birds on the wing of the

whispering exponentials,

amplifications of the troposphere

circulating in the room

where the knick knacks are weeping

computations of the stonelike

crush of the Void

The Elephant eyed angel, the carousel of the Clown

The Witch Queen Hecate.

architectures of

nightshade boiling in suspended animation

as the neurons of Picasso run like

changelings across the forest floor.

the Song of the Mediterranean,

the daydream of the Gods.

broken toys and Gossiping philosophers,

the lie of Evolution?

How the Ocean floor is an Inhuman Eye,

exploring the starlight of spiralling

galaxies

falling into the tide,

constructing the signals of bacteria

and archangels

lost in the gestalt of cartwheeling Chapels

flumes of paradox

and the harlequin of fractals of Chaos,

sermons of  the great Unknown