Cloudlike Curtains

Neologos, allegro:  the corpusculent embers of Dawn,

where the seabirds are baking a thousand whirlwinds in their wings 

tornadoes of bird fueled madness, 

dropping eyelids like the seeds of the Apocalypse in some 

perfumery of Creation, when the nostrils

are caked with sodium pentathol and the Sun is like a Hearse

full of Hollywood actors,

ten thousand soldiers disappearing into the Story that Begins and 

Ends in the eyes of a newborn messiah,

the smile curving in a crescent above the temple whose name is anonymous,

adamantine embers billowing in arboreal crests,

word by word a lung haunted silence escalating exhalations above 

the subnuclear coil of an involvement void,

the event horizon where there are No Strangers, but a series 

of phantoms balanced in a masquerade of lost consciousness, 

in the place where the Universe is no Longer the Universe

but something escaping itself on it's way to another horizon,

until the doorbell rings and the television begins to describe

the lost nightmares of Harry Houdini.

*

On the edge of the razor, there is a collection of human throats.

Stainless steel hummingbirds, grazing the human eye with delusional 

wisdom, the psychology of transience, an impermanent angelic 

synergy of What If, What If, What if the Night Shined in the 

rhodopsins of the Human Eye, infinity paused the way JS Bach's fugues

pause in the human flesh, for just a moment between glances

when memory surrenders it's wisdom to the depths of the indeterminate

world --- and there, a Ghost is dreaming of the Rainforest,

and the Styrofoam Cup is a pawn in the Game of the Gods,

a reptilian hindbrain is writhing like a witch heart in the drainage ditch,

where the Surgeons of Purgatory are describing the scene

to Antonin Artaud, 

who has arrived on the scene like a Mime in a Ventriloquists' nightmare,

his fingertips containing 

a puzzle of broken toys, those Soldiers full of light and jade,

sapphires of sadness expressed in the curve of their skeletons 

underneath the glow of a bonfire of thunder at the edge of the Bomb Making Sky. 

***

the doorway to the insane asylum is guarded by a Saint 

whose eyes curl in dark ribbons.  His moustache is on fire, bread crumbs

and a lace curtain of broken words spun by a tongue that seems

constructed of cardboard and cow magic.  The eyes are blotted knots

of broken stone. Dark. Containing nothing, not even nothing, 

but a strange sucking cacophony of voids, calculating emptiness

that seems as if it was engineered from some distant vantage point 

in the future.  The mirror of God is suspended in the Chromium 

counterbalance between the interior of my brain, which is everywhere

and nowhere, and this door, which opens with a knock and closes

like a mouth, the shuffling whisk of a click and a lock

perfectly timed.  Robot fantasia.  The air of a dead man's lungs, 

stale and perfumed with the scent of tears and vomit and paper.

There is an old woman, assembled in a crash of bones and black cotton 

lying helpless on the waiting room floor.  Her teeth are broken yellow

like the mouth of a cat, pursed with silent infancies, insane and insanely 

incapable of being ignored, until her fingers rush against the thin 

air and She begins howling a lost name, not even a name but a series 

of throaty crutched contagions, zephyrs of some Greek Goddess ---

whirling around the room in pursuit of an ear, a brain,

a spine, a response from the universe that seems rational, real.

It is not, and there is none, and She just lays on the floor,

a bare writhe, her clothes curling in ligaments of a ghost.

The attendants are laughing, and the room is full of nursery rhymes on the 

verge of bursting into graffitti on the white painted walls. One can

hear Cinderella weeping in the Sky.  The Lumberjack is snorting blue fire

on the edge of the forest, which seems to be made out of pencils

and bureaucrat bones.  The room spins on the Z axis, a strange paranoia

drifts in light and syntax.  Order. there is the Order not of the 

Law not of the Speech not of the Theatre, but of the Madness of God,

and it is an enchantment experienced in bursts of fantastic pauses,

face into face like a series of clocks, all telling different times.

In one eye, it is Midnight.  On the other side of the room,

it is the year 10,000.  There are cerebellums screaming symphonies

of sound from deep inside the year 33.  The other man, scattering his

bones in the dust of the night shift at the Insane Asylum, is murmuring 

Job 10:16, his fist raised like a tornado of questions, grasping at the 

sky until the room turns on it's X axis, and the photons scintillate

in perfect intimations of post modern madness, and the attendant 

walks in strange lunar footsteps towards the mouth of the Door,

and in perfect rhythm:  AS SEEN ON TELEVISION:  The bombs begin raining 

down, telephone bombs and the lipstick faced bombs of the Saints,

the half deranged testimony of shopping malls, bursting in white fire

red fire blue flames that singe the eye with a deep green hearse

of money and wisdom of the evolution of the world on the Y Axis,

and the room turns silent, until the Dark Haired Woman coughs, and it is 

a paragraph of God's immaculate madness.  This night, the Asylum

will host the Angels of the Lost Beginning, the shadowy parade

of the Moveable Feast, the Banquet of Unbroken Energy, one by one

the ghosts arriving in perfect timed precision, synergies

of Heaven and Hell balanced in the flesh, which is trapped on this 

Earth.  The old woman clamors up onto the couch, her skeleton like 

a necklace rising up from the mud of the night, fingers whirring with 

the Last Temptation of St. Joan, a fiery bonfire of normalcy gathered 

around her in the ordinary world, the Waiting room like a cross

between a discotheque and an emergency room, no blood save the phantasmagoric

dreamlike visions of the people, one by one as they stagger in their 

eyes wide as saucers, flying saucers, broken dishes hurled

through the night to the bottom of the floor as if that was what made

sense, that explains everything.  On the wall of the waiting room there

is a series of postcards burning with phosphorescent languages,

the host of the angels sleeping in the Mountains of Oregon, Hawaii, 

a newborn child's face, ten thousand miles away, the ribbons and the dream 

of infinity above a typewriter paused on an unfinished word:

psychosis, diagnosis, the network of belief, ten thousand prisons,

waiting on the other side of the waiting room, where the Doctor is humming 

perhaps a scene from some ancient Opera, perhaps a murmur of broken memories.

*

I am sitting like the Orphan of God, trapped in the Birdcage of this

hallowed non event, describing a series of blue lines that have appeared 

racing through the suburbs in perfect rhythm to the Lines on the Talk Show,

Jerry Springer has his audience howling and in the room, standing somewhere 

between the television set and my face is a blue curve.  Perfectly balanced,

moving in slow motion, connected like Moebies Loop in what seems to be a bioluminescent 

apparition, the Doctors Eyes turn purple, invert, inside out, breakdancing 

while the audience begins to swivel in their seats and on the other side of the door

I can hear the Old Woman begin screaming a parable of Blood, her voice

shrieking like a bird in a bellydancers hand, as the whole world begins 

to careen into a series of transcendental superstitions and it is apparent 

that not even the Doctor knows what he is doing, his face like 

a Mayan Ziggurat, holes and cheekbones bathed in wirey bones that seek 

something other than themselves in the Mirror Image of God, which is 

I realize again, nowhere and everywhere all at once, like the rain when it falls

in your heart as it is surrounded by television sets screaming about the 

endless sunlight and the Old Woman nods in slow motion and the parables

are fueled by the admonitions of something on the other side of this Night,

where the sun is not finished and the Chinese people are perhaps throwing 

fishing nets across the heart of the Inviolable Buddha and their daydreams

slip through the soles of their shoes into the aquarium 

sitting on the edge of the Table.

A question, a series of questions, designed to prove somebody's sane

somebody knows what is going on.  Who is the president.

What year is this.  What's your favorite color?  When was the last time 

you accepted Sigmund Freud as your Carnival barker?  Who cares. 

The Blue Curves keep arriving, and they seem like dolphins that have fallen 

from the sky, and I explain to the Doctor that there was a moment on the other 

side of the river when there was a group of people that 

were gathered around, in perfect normalcy and it was as if all of a sudden,

then did not even realize it but they all started moving in slow motion,

it was perfectly choreographed, like a dance, a scene from some 

celestial cartoon, for several minutes --- there was a point to point 

series of events, entirely comprehensible, premonitions of being 

as if the light had shifted it's direction, perhaps an unbalancing 

of the Light cone, a change in polarity, just as Richard Feyman might 

describe to the Bongoes he must certainly still be playing and the 

Doctor, nods at the name and the Connectionist Weave of human endeavour

advances like a fish swimming through the river to the place

where it always begins: everywhere, and nowhere, always simultaneously.

The woman on the other side, is pleading for her life.

Her voice is a screeching palindrome, Echoing negativities of 

poison and paranoia, an entire litany just as if it was out of the 

Love Song of Job to the God of Delusional Empathy.  They took her children

her house burned down, she has twelve scars from the last 

methamphetamine paralysis, the Risperdal reminds her of a communion wafer,

and can she please speak to her Grandmother.  Her Grandmother, I realize

is listening.  To every word.  She is right there, in the Light, only 

men do not see it.  There is no other place for the dead and the living  to 

go, to be.  The Doctor looks at me. I remind him, I am Hamlet, I am Lazarus

back from the dead, and TS Eliot knew this was going to happen, and I 

will tell him everything: especially the night above the graveyard

when there were tunnels in the clouds as I lay in the cemetery stoned

hallucinating a thousand faces, and the clouds opened up as if it was 

a giant tornado, and I could see straight through to the opening of the night 

sky, and several stars shined blue and white and the lightning -- became

frenetic, like a tongue, lashing out at the contents of my imagination

a direct correlation, but there was no rain, only that strange electromagnetic

syzygy, and the Doctor's eyes become like the eyes of a fish

unbalanced, and he says I will be going in, and I will not be leaving,

The Universe has disappeared and the old woman's voice is rising and falling 

in an eerie parellogram of madness, we will become conspirators against 

the end of the world, there, where perhaps that Man --- the one who looked 

exactly like Ernest Hemingway --- the one who screamed the last time 

for ten hours about how he was actually a Federal Judge as his eyes 

burst into a yellowy syntax like a lion lashing out in peril, wounded

by some convergence of events that nobody nobody could ever begin to comprehend.

I slip out of the chair, following the Doctor towards the other Side of the door

where I think I am aware of what might happen next, the same way one 

would imagine life would happen had one been abducted by a UFO 

and the inside of the UFO looked just like a living room only it was

populated by Extraterrestrials who knew everything, just as you knew everything,

and could feel the Beginning of Time bursting through your flesh 

in ways the Normal People could never begin to express or explain.

*

There is a man who wanders the night, on the edge of the streets when nobody is really 

capable of looking, drifting around the convenience stores, tall and grey haired

and with a tracheotomy, his throat visibly wounded and exhaling smoke underneath the streetlamp

obvious from fifty feet away.  Inside the Asylum, he is sitting watching 

Static.  Emptiness, perhaps like Sears and Roebuck after the Apocalypse,

when the rest of the world is on fire but inside the room, it is translucent,

a Cage of Comprehension.  The nurse appears. Her eyes are like Futons. Her body 

is a series of poses, mannequin robots, professionalism coated with an eerie

disconnect, which increases the paranoia about the nature of reality even further.

She stands in the edge, her skin the color of cholera. Nose turned like a sundial 

to the place where nothing is happening.  The Curves are everywhere, they are 

manifestations at this time of some Ancient Bodhissattva, a whirling carouselambra

of impossible charicatures.  Hahaha how fantastic. I am weeping.  The medication 

is sifting through my memories; perhaps it is composed of alien documents. Blueprints

of the Transcendental Object at the End of Time. I am like an engine, a smithy, 

my being is an exaltation of biological machines whirring against the gravity 

of God.                                                                                                             

***

Fractals of Jade in Shades of Deja Vu

RATE: 0 Flag 

On that dandelion, paused: the bumble Queen, light learning 

its way across jaded emeralds of tranquility,

vast portraits of pythagorean anomalies generating 

the lace craze of creationist mysteries, every twelfth octave

a trebling of spirals whose rhythm is unbalanced by the journeywork 

of the Anonymous Everything, out on the edge of the darkness 

when the stars become blue and black and the yellow thoughts

originate in temples of translucent admonitions,

at just the moment the Universe spins on it's indeterminate axis,

and the Grasshoppers announce the shroud of the clouds

as they ramble around the Banquent of Eloquent Quasilogical 

Mysteries, there where the Night sang itself down into 

the chasms of unfinished thought. 

It was upon the edge of this Non Local Nothingness, when the 

Mirrored Ballerino appeared whisked by some legacy of ascension

around the corners of the blue gathering emptiness,

that a name ignited in spontaneous trills where the soil was purchased

by phantom plutonian philosophers, 

whose eyes are composed of a series of edges that move 

through the world like the hands of Clocks, in slow motion 

and always unfinished. 

*

The flame that singed the trapezium of zephyrs was 

remembering the Law of Instantaneous Amnesia, there on the edge 

of this scene within the scene, and a white curl of Light 

traced it's visage in crests of bone and flesh, organic transverse

of ligaments into nests of consciousness.  The Philosopher

arrived in a series of Illuminated Antedeluvian Synchronicities,

just the way all Stories do: 

node by node, an almost choreographed elopement of day into dusk.

Robots on the far side of the world suddenly wept,

which seemed more like music than the Robot Queens had considered,

there where the planets were as empty as Christmas in the Nightmare

of an Alien Existentialist, 

plutonic vapors cascading through galaxies in the fingerprints of G-d. 

***

Crystalline Antechamber of Splendors

RATE: 0 Flag 

A symbolic urgency, the ten million stories 

writing themselves in lashes and lips, eyes and the 

flood of light on the cheek.  A dictionary of faces,

where the pupil and the iris ignite in bloodshot 

melodies, until the Spirit exits from the skin 

across stages of purple incandescence, revealing 

a flowery knot of monsters gargling silence 

in the wintery ground, their hearts drunk on 

an infinity of crucifixions, the same way the sky 

erupts in mythopoetic hieroglyphics, the Lion's

eye scanning the Hawk that hovers in whispering 

gypsies of mammalian speculation about the secret 

nature of their secret nature, that strange 

sensory exaltation of life moving against the flow of Time

into ordinate escapades of post logical transcendence

when the clouds appear on the horizon like UFO's 

of Steam in a Bathroom mirror.

*

In the arboreal wind, the treetops are full of catholic 

magic.  The place where the leaves are racing into oblivious 

amnesia, a grace within the guilt of God, the night 

like a dress rehearsal for the Book of Genesis, when the

spirit moved like an insane ballerina across the threshold 

of the multiplying voids.

*

A breathless Seamstress, decorating the room in periwinkle

lace: discovers in the jewelry box:  the skull of a bird,

unbalanced but full of the Lies of Rubies, and waiting like a Mime

for someone to speak in the enchantment of the 

Second Lost World, the world that contains recipes for Heresy 

and Light, gypsy kaleidoscopes nested in the craters of the moon,

a wild perfumery of unscented ghosts whose stomachs

contain furnaces of golden delusion, every next century 

whirling in the soil until the graveyards surrender their 

lessons, 

and the New World, like Pythgoras, slips through the grass

across the tongue of a cow, into the Philosopher's heart 

where waiting is a crystalline antechamber, the ancient 

dreams of the King and the Queen anointed by a leukocyte 

of splendors. 

***

Tunnels of Demigod Capillaries

RATE: 0 Flag 

The exquisite pangs of a preternatural premonition 

 

eloping through an ecosystem of apparition, burning the human heart 

 

 

into unreadable books and puzzles of ziggurat building light.  The Cafe is supercharged with ballads

 

of the Unfinished World.  The writers have assembled in mammalian fury,

 

obeying the laws of philosophy and the machinations of Gog and Magog,

 

sending their eyes into the text in pursuit of the Myth that returns the Soul to the Soul. 

 

This bluebearded Grandfather, his jaw set in permanent War and the Defiance, uses the Sun 

 

as a hammer.  It rings when the dancers feet lift through ionic bonds, the world 

 

a Smithy of Madness. 

 

 At the edge of the anvil,

 

 

there is a Fairy Queen singing jeweled  quasicrystals around the blue

 

 

fire that churns the chameleon's mouth into a frothy oven of lies, opening in heliotropic weirdness

 

towards the place

 

 

where Mozart was born, out of control and lost in perfect syntactical

 

 

disintegration until that moment when the Mockingbird s**t in his Grandfathers

 

 

beard and the New World burst into pyrotechnic glissandos and a trillion blue notes

 

whistling their way into the Fairy Queen's flesh. 

 

 

*

 

 

A candelabra appeared on the edge of this crime scene, where the Bluebeard named Albatross

 

 

was paraphrasing the twittering jabberwock Waiter, hairy eyeballs in descent  down stairwells of time

 

 

that close in modern spirals, circling themselves in circles according the laws of Venusian Psychopolitics

 

 

where the First Beings are suspended in Mid Air above Cirque du Soleil,  and every mirror image of the rain 

 

 

reveals vampires cloaked in  cardboard eyes like Cubicle Kings hiding in translucent paradigms, every moment an 

earthquake

 

 

of mythopoetic hypnosis,  where the God with no name gallps into constellating gardens of darkness,

 

 

nooses raised in looped fumes of  perfect unitary urgency, and  the sound of the Vagabonds chanting in the 

Streetlamps

 

 

brings the night to a vast cosmological coil of dizzying vertiginous trancendence,

 

and the the Suburbians sit, motionless robotic in the depths of the Asylum,  until the Mother of God

 

feeds her Priests ten thousand cakes of an Enchanted Deluvian Fire, 

 

 

bringing Heresy  of beauty up into the heart of  Grape Gathering God,

 

bacchanalian entropy whirling in neurotransmitters the color of plutonium roses.  

 

 

*

 

 

On a white pillow, She places her freedom.  A slice of bread and the tooth of Buddha,

 

until the night stars curl into turquoise requiems, and the turning of ten thousand turtles 

 

 

teaches the tarantulas how to trip into the turbulent twilight,

 

their teacups singed by the name of the Anonymous Shaman racing 

 

 

into rainforests of Styrofoam Cups and the Bones of Knights Templar, their skulls  singing the swan song of

 

photons bursting from Serotonin Oasis. 

 

 

The Queen of the Elves has devised a caterwaul of catatonic apostrophes, where the Magificat Cat is designing 

 

 

a silent intimacy of an Oasis that has never been discovered, the secret 

 

 

path that leads from Mark Twain's grave through tunnels of demigod capillaries that remind 

 

 

all Non Local Mystics of their time spent hovering like Buddhas in the  astral lattice of fractalline angels

 

whose conversations are  crazed by the sound of their disintegration at the edge of the thought - gathering 

sunbeam,

 

where the seagulls perch in fields of discarded sandwiches, and the Ocean itself is an Old Grandmother arguing the 

colors of Nightmare 

 

 

with the ghost of Fyodor  Dostoyevsky, who shuffles around the Shopping mall on 

 

 

winged feet, remembering names the nameless cannot remember. 

***

Marcel Marceau, who lives in the Mausoleum of Metaphor

RATE: 0 Flag 

The polyphonous murmur that burns with trumpets of blood, 

ear to ear down that boulevard

 

where the new Gods trace tongues of crimson light into

kisses that singe the eye, those eyes where

the mockingbirds ride their the way through a column of smoke

and every word is a shard of broken logic, disbelief of bird flesh

warped on the nudity of blue apparitions that bath in the darkness of a  

perpetual disintegration, as rich as any Death Zone

 

haunted by the exploding syllogisms of 

non linear judgment

 

and  harlequin ballads whose lips are pressed

into roses that hide like magicians in the pages

 

of a book  written,  nightmare by nightmare 

in the blood splashed miracle of an inhuman eye.  

 

A phantasm of pathological connections:

mouth of the robot opened toward the sky,

 

where the Last Ghost is cartwheeling in diodes of imaginary 

crododiles and rhythms of God fueled being that obey only 

the law of Trigonometric fantasias.

 

Twelve cloud colored swastikas racing against

the flesh of Van Gogh's paint by number womb,

 

every earlobe 

burning with the scent of russian

beer and the laughter of disneyland w****s

 

whose eyes churn against the night in  summery  ballads of 

wheat tumbling into bonfires of intoxicated spiritual vertigo,

 

mouths open like funnel clouds inhaling the love scenes

 

of Marlon Brando and Rita Hayworth whose bodies tumble across

 

the sky  in slow motion in wisps of perfumed convections,

 

dilating  the universe through prisms of elemental probability.  

 

A gold throated 

chimera rehearses the daydreams in the afterlife of

 

Moliere while the whitewashed antelope races across the rooftop,

 

hoofs tripping down the steel and glass serengetia

 

as the one God growls like an infant Beethoven quivering 

in prophectic paroxysms of mute disbelief in the advancing

 

strangeness of the Candle, every  eye curls against an unknowable face,

opening into apertures of moonlike whorls, 

the  fear drunk brain of beings surrounded by immortal assassins,

 

every heart a freight train of exotic paranoias,  jaguars

 

of hatred crouched on windowsills running with philosopher's blood,

 

the sweltering ligaments explained in  diagrams of enchanted suffering.

 

On the edge of the table they placed an exclaimation 

point of amnesia;  The magician traced three names in the

 

star gathering sky, and turnedVan Gogh into an enchanted pterodactyl,

where he flies above the French countryside waiting to hurl comets into wineglasses of intoxicated angels nursing

 

lies by the banks of a potassium river.

 

The stairwell ripples in the eye like the spine of a zebra in zero gravity,  

a trillion demonic passengers slip through the optic chiasm as if

 

they were headed towards the uterus of Time.

 

Every ounce of insanity is traced in illuminated modalities of the

 

chandelier that names God after it's Grandmother, her footsteps a

waltz of  catholic blue fevers in the grass that sings of the Babylonian

 

hour, when the tongues of the Passengers split in thermonuclear visions

 

and the universe inverted, and not even the felines realized what was happening.

 

The Sorcerer  announced

the arrival of the Chrysanthemum Choir;  petals of housewives mouths

 

opened against the whirling of the wind. Her face became a tambourine

 

of autopoetic clamor.   

 

 In this gathering, there were Thieves whose 

mouths stole verbs from a bumblebee's throat, and the eyelids

of the Cherubim dropped loops of transcendental chakra around 

a young woman's weathervane powered heart.  

 

C**k crow choir murmured an exotic

inflection of introspective insanity.

 

across the yawn burnt tastebuds  the alleyway was

 

scented with the fever of a Parisian bakery.  A croissont of

 

unconditional memory sat where the Baker played cards with

 

a Blacksmith whose eyes were violins of negativity.

 

There, She said:  is the castle where the oldest violinist in the world

 

is weeping iridescent eloquence

through a hole in the top of her skull.  The violin grows wings like a

 

praying Mantis whose soulful enchantment  

began in the  year 900, a wild Maple tree spinning it's curtain colored

 

leaves through the light and the rain in hopes of discovering

 

a miracle of voices there --- song after song sweeping through the dirt

 

just like the years when the Golem swept through Paris

obeying the obscenities hurled from the rooftops of fire and nobody 

 

knew what was happening until the streets were full of strange ethereal

 

children quoting the poetry as it escaped from the heart of the Rocks and

 

the Geese, a thousand cathedrals opening their doors to the strange

 

wind of human madness.  

On that night, in the tidal pool

 

when Monsieur Catatonia began to derive multiple 

properties of Alchemical glossolalia from deep inside the bruised

lungs of a dirt breathing Fairy,

the graveyards of the City erupted with furious applause of the dead,

ten thousand roots burst with polyphonic absurdities that 

rippled into the sky as the clouds filled themselves

 

with translucent synonyms 

for the lost name of God, and the carnival rushed to the place

where van Gogh and the Violinist were dueling with Tulips and razors,

turning the Chrysanthemum Queen into a shroud of Strange Cotton as their hearts blurred the century with an 

uncertain mystery,

 

leaving the field wet with thought stained footsteps.

 

  The Empire sleeps in it's shroud of uncertainty.

Satellites hurl apparitions of the God Machine into

 

the maternity ward.  Calculators

run amok towards the artificial Bethlehem, everywhere a  

 

Christmas carol 

of unwritten prayers becomes the recipe for daylight and the arrival 

of the Jester,

 

whose Kingdom is fused with White Noise and the light flood of 

 

random numbers lost inside a Fairy Tale of the Dream World of Sparrows.

 

 

 The w***e's mouth 

spins gold around an astronaut's fist.  

 

A gasp envelopes pomengranate cowbells 

in the place that is rich as an Irish cemetery

 

 with the fresh colored bones of Escape artists that leave 

 

through the cemetery disguised as horses. 

Catatonia sweeps the Cubicles. A Zirconium ring breaks in

 

the mirror.  Golden slumbers, the Beatles are singing.  Her guitar is

 

made of junkyard plywood and sings like a Pit Bull from Mars.

 

There, on the sidewalk, Her freckles are seized with the

mathematical language of the City Father Ghosts who play tricks

in the chromosomes of the suntanned demigod.  The

 

insane asylum is waiting.  It is operated by tattooed witches who

 

memorize the Shakespearean soliloquys while feeding wild herbs to

 

cats that gather at their feet.   The suburbs erupt in a blur of babbling psychopathologies.  Soon

 

the madmen will chase each other into the Emergency Room,

 

where the Doctor is waiting to play hide and seek deep inside their

 

haunted uteruses.   There is A crazed witch. She is  bathing in 

sulfur dioxide and sleeps in a bathtub for centuries.  Her

 

love is  fueled by white fires and the price of Soda keeps her happy until her blood turns a strange purple and she

 

is forced to the bottom of the Sky to chase mice into the secret Church

 

that only nobody knows is there, where the Billboard and the Cemetery collide

 

like Godzilla and King Kong.  An existentialists Necklace 

is a composed of moon hunting eyes of fibonacci drunk cannibals.

 

Those eyes roar with  the cold fury of the unborn.

 

The dawn brings a chorus of raspberies who chant to the rain about 

fear that turns the flesh into a fiery fantasia, until the Voices of the 

Radio ignite with supernatural stupor.

 

Subhuman logic of invertebrate villains

whisk the wind into centuries of poesy.  Lewis Carroll steps 

 

out of the Pentagon door, his skull traced by a strange bioluminescent 

 

constellation of polka dots that then race down the street in pursuit of

 

their Mother, the Last UFO at the scene of the Time Traveling Crime Scene.  

  Words of Plato are found crawling down the street when nobody is looking. 

The Primeval Necropolis, a landscape containing the

 

wisdom o9f the dead controls a hundred thousand

hearts in perfect stillborn unison --- the remote control that powers the Planet Earth

 

from the edge of the Universe where God is sitting in a chair,

 

watching reruns of the nightly news from ten trillion planets

 

full of people that nobody likes.  

 

A sigh erupts where the beach is populated

by symbolic beings who have fled the Maternity ward and now

 

race through a Bomb shattered Disneyland of each other's wet feathered

 

eyes,

every new world  like a wrongly pronounced word

 

full of sounds that cannot be heard save by those 

who listen to the Sadness of God with the Ears of the Void of the Void Void Void. 

 

A bo0merang suddenly hovers above Gotham.  

*

On that beach, that night in New Jersey, the moon was the size of an Elephant's pillow.

 

 Children laughed themselves into the jeweled

 

stupor of everlasting innocence, their wings 

shining in parallelograms  of light that neither do nor do not exist,

 

tripped

by the winds of every subatomic miracle into crystalline  chiracos 

on the edge of the connectionist ocean where a Siamese Cat, whose databanks contain the love songs of twelve 

thousand wild salmon,

 

are memorizing the names 

of the Waves to remind the Sphinx of the Day the Stars stopped singing.  

*

A Candelabra assembled  the Pharoah of the God clock,

 

deep the heart of a Buddha eyed

 Crab. The sunlight was Chinese,

igniting her toeprints the way a potato ignites the smile of a Gypsy 

who balances her tambourine on the edge of a slow moving dog, when 

the night is drunk and the mouth of the debutante  becomes a furnace of yarn

 

and the audience enters the stage  

tripping into the spotlights to the  sound of unparalleled madness,

at the edge of the ocean waves, the cresting voice of dolphins searching

 

for  Shakespeare or some way to London City,

 

 

where the flower girl  dresses her children 

in newsprint and the numerology of Stonehenge as if it was engineered

by  certain light starved  anemone who live in the Castles of

 

sunburnt poets, whose wisdom is the fantasy of Infinite Freedom,

a vision of night after night as if the

 

End of Time was here and now, forever and never 

wherever the real world arrives,

in the question that has no answer whatsoever, but that dwells in the brain

like a buddhist ballerina baking moonbeams of  crushed apples in

 

an invisible maternity ward in the sky where the newborn babies

are quoting Tchaikovsky in a symphony of monosyllables left over from 

the birth of the First God of the God that has no God but God.  

*

It is a curled finger, and the Horizon is made of asphalt wedding cake.

 

There is a Coven of irish hierophants exchaning Christmas recipes

 

to a host of Charismatic messiahs who have traveled from Ninevah to 

 

Dublin in search of Abraham Lincoln.   The light sounds like TS Eliot

 

exhaling during a love scene on the top of Mt. Everest, where the holy men  

 

have  beards that churn with whiskey and number drunk  thunders of

 

creation. 

 

  Penny faced Philosophers melts his fingertips across the  lungs of a

 

forge where the iron is rich with blue infants.

 

The  Bulldozers sleep in the trapezium rich environment of Armageddon under the Tide.

 

There is a moment when the drainage ditch is suddenly full of Ancient 

Antichrists, and the pimple faced debutante pauses in imitatio of the  Virgin Mary to 

inhale a godzillion flock of photons.

 

She proceeds on bird footed toesteps down the rocky

 

mud of the hill to the convenience store in pursuit of

a slurpee.  She is contemplating Infinite.  Cosmopolitan magazine,

 

the Evolution of Kangaroos and that last bong hit,

 

the one that gave birth to a Chameleon's eye in the technicolor Night.

There is a road map to Cavalry written in convenience store ceiling,

 where the discotheque is 

full of ten thousand thieves hurling their smiles towards Heaven,

just at the moment the discotheque disappears and nothing can be seen 

but a series of weird faces breaking in hurricanes of blue light 

and strange isosceles triangles spin cheek  into cheek around

 

 a harlequin's

mask, and the human mouth ignites in purple flowers, a glossolalia 

of babylonian argonauts, kryptonite and delusory exhalations burning 

their way through the discotheque door where on the sidewalk a thousand 

policemen are standing in suspended animation, the Bodhissatvas of 

the Nirvana that does not Yet Exist.  There, on the edge of the curb 

is a heartbroken juvenile delinquent, erasing her tattoo with a shred of 

ribbon reaped from the Florist's heart. The Elvis parade arrives on the street corner

where Marilyn Monroe is describing the hegelian dialectic to a Group 

of troglodytes, their eyelids drooping in heliotropic synthesis 

as a television set roars at the bottom of the Universal Floor --- 

Planet Earth, where none of this is really real until it is Made in the Chinese

Hollywood, a secret soundstage ten miles underneath the City that does Not Exist.

In Inner Mongolia, there is a styrofoam cup that the Yaks do not comprehend.

The slow gaze of ten thousand empty faced Confucians ignites the jetstream with 

a brilliant chiaruscuro whose entropy can be squared only by the last name

of the Maiden who sleeps with Godot, burying gamma rays in the Cobwebs of Time.  

A broken hearted 

Shaman, whose eyes have opened in the direction of the Zenith of Hell,

has lit the thrones with a strange promise of premonitions that circles

the Courtyard the way Stones Circle the Eyes of a Trout.  The Shaman 

gargles a dandelion.  Ten thousand dandelions away, the lost light 

arrives on a slice of dragonfly leg.  The cricket has charged the Universe

with Heresy.  Lao Tzu is not not not not laughing laughing, the way 

the Lao Tzu that is the Lao Tzu that is not the Lao Tzu is. Depending on 

what book you read, and the bass hum of the black hole that burns around

the center of the place where Houdini is channeling John Kennedy

and the blueprints are full of instructions on how to build 

a Clock that does not Tell Time, but that tells Time What to Do. 

*

Inside the purse, the money is an illuminated anomaly, containing 

treasures of antedeluvian carnivores, the flesh of the flesh 

rippling in Las Vegas level paranoia.  The dealer opens his mouth,

races his fingers across the playing card, and the woman in the next chair

swallows her soul in a gasp of maddened dismay.  The night

exhales the whisper of a corpse.  Light bulbs burst with blind man's smiles.

A strange old man, his face a taut lavender turtleshell 

begins to charge the room with his post modern rage. His words

spin into the room like boomerangs of paralysis, every clock ticking 

in the skin the way a Nuns heart clicks with the laughter of God.

*

On the other side of the Convenience store, the Bar is full of Light skinned

cowgirls, their bodies crushed like robot mannequins in a strange perfume

of sweat and beer, cheap perfume and vinyl flesh. Tires squeal as the dogs 

are beat by the asphalt burning against a thousand crucifix tattoos.  A ten paned

face is a cathedral of dirt and lust, her cheekbones rattling in curses of bellydancers

and black eyed peasants whose names are not remembered until the curtains 

of the Sky erupt in wild pastiche of inflammatory accusations, and the SWAT 

team escapes through a secret door in the Parade where an old man is weeping 

over the Maps to an Undiscovered Country, the trembling memory of Heaven that swirls from 

heart to heart.  At that moment, they reverse their wisdom.  The Inside is not the 

Outside, and the Outside is not the North Side, and the sight of the 

Cattle in the Blue Sky brings tears to the eye inside the unfinished eye.  The Door leads

backwards into a Pantheon of Cruelty.

  Athena and Isis, Sappho and Hapshepsut are telling tales

of the wheat weeping wheat, where the pyromaniacs sleep like 

Priests of the Post Modern Covenant. On the edge of the Bus Stop, someone is quoting 

William Butler Yeats.  Nietsche laughs in the sun like a desert tarantula, his compound eyes

swiveling in the moon sockets of the a black cat, every skin cell inviting the forest 

to run against the Human Skull where the Witches have gathered their thought drinking 

bowls, ten thousand jeweled flowers that glisten in shades of a dragonesque mystery. 

The bonfire of the open mouth contains the golden embers of the Old Woman's

smile, the last time it knew itself within itself, not as a rumor

on the edge of the Daily News, but an iguana basking in the Tahitian 

Sun, where the trees stand sentinel over the eggs of UFO thirsty turtles.

*

The light sways like an accountants finger.  The theatre is full of grey suited

men, their jawbones locked in luck riddled murmurs, hoping to sway the Gods 

of Death into sleep of the Infinite Now, until the door opens and the ballroom 

is filled with a petulant narcissist, her lips clasped on teeth and the tongue

marked by sonice dissonance, her body like an alligator swimming into a room of sharks,

every whisper a scented twisting of the civilized tongue, boil soliloquys of lost paramours, 

the last moment of love, a changeling of anguished astonishment,

her smile rising on the thermodynamics of a supernovae Ophelia,

her spirit rising in the Mist until Shakespeare writes another ten thousand

unfinished lines, his ghost buried in a Cask of red wine.   

*

The lost rhyme races from tooth to tongue.  A catalog of magical solipsisms;

who said what to who and when?  The way the dress sweeps into the autumn leaves,

the way the fingertips point to the Sky and the Old Man's lungs in perfect 

synchronicity, a thousand spirits arriving in the vacuous enlightenment 

of the cresting of psychological waves.  A room that bursts into sudden 

sullen nullification of loveless aspirations.  A lost man, his scarfaced eye

trembling like a torch on some faraway island, the women of the Constellations

hung with jewelry that trips down aisles of Castled Synchronicity, scintilla 

of the Stygian simultaneity, where the Ghost god is chattering wildly 

like a lost dog racing through the wintery rain. 

*

On the edge of the Castled Countenance, the King of the Mad Queen of Indestructable

Tarantulas

has explained the paradox of ecstasy to a merchant marine.  The marine

is gazing towards the vanishing point, a crucifixion of apertures and 

juxtaposed entropy where  Christ and Moses spin through 

the room in cyclotrons of wisdomless wisdom, the zen of zenless zenlessness.

 Mary Magdalene arrives like a soldier's bride,

her fist clutching a poisoned rose.  Her face is the color 

of an octopus' eye. There is a vagabond who weeps at the library door,

where the Astronomers have placed their moon dust, every image 

in every book containing the first thoughts of the Leviathan that nests 

in the Library Books at night, when only the eye of God is moving and the 

hemisphere is racing with footsteps of Fairies.

The books close like a clown's mouth.  The pages churn  with hurricanes

of Inhuman Lies. Machines come unburied in the greenhouse where the 

Zombies glow.  A strange man dances in the churchyard,

his feet bloodied by the asphalt of the Romanesque wild.  The Ghost god chatters at the 

moment the church bell rings and out from underneath the Grass

appears Marcel Marceau.  His eyes are billboards paraphrasing the Book of Job. Eyelashes

like dollar signs.  Laugh lines that curl in serpentine semiotics, revealing 

continents controlled by time bending flags.  The 

last thought of the Vagabond flies into the night as his brain ripples

with Rosicrucian furies, the first thought of Eden as elemental as the spinning 

of light in the place where a Lemniscate Curves. 

***

A Stellar Elemental of Inexpressible Symmetry

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

Earth. The stellar mausoleum, where the Robots hatch 

eyeless children into portaits that arrive on the wind,

face by face the Kingdom appearing to some like a deck of playing 

cards waiting for some War to begin, 

the Queen and the King nursing their silent hostilities the 

way the dying God nurses it's divinity in the flesh of those 

that still live, every human eye spinning against itself 

until it sees nothing but the strange tangled illuminations 

of carbon and iron and the noble gasses whose irradiant melodies

hum in the pythagorean madness, a strange shadowy egress 

full of chameleons and thieves whose fingertips clutch 

rubies until the Supercomputer hatches a new world from the depths

of it's translucent skeleton, the machine language erupting with 

white pearls of the Saints.  Under the city there is a city

of the dead. A whirlwind of roses bursting like adjectives against 

the rooftop of the soil.  The dead do not complain.  The dead do not announce

their theories, the memory of man does not decide the judgment of 

the Imaginary Beings.  They listened through the Empty World, 

their ears like broken glasses collecting the tears of the insane,

a thousand verbs, a thousand nouns dissolved into the vacuous 

tapestry of silence, where the past is undiscovered until the future

is expressed in the movements of the world outside the world.

A temple breaks along the cresting of the broken heart, 

the white wind, the pantomime of ancient scavengers rippling with the 

synergy of Hell, a vacuous nothingness that contains the rumors 

of the rumor that is not a rumor but a codex. 

***

Dragons on the Dream Wind

RATE: 0 Flag 

a polyphonic lie.  She witnessed in the vast blackness of 

the parking lot night, the halogen lamps like old women  nursing prayers

to some fallen angel bathing the world in a whisper of exotic 

strangeness, that slow light of purgatorial awareness whose face

exchanges itself in the blinking eyes of those strangers who 

have assembled like ghosts on the edge of the road, their every 

pulse like a secret codice of oscillating epiphenomenon,

the sighted magistrate suspended in the sky on wings of cotton fantasies,

love waiting inside the temple at the edge of the ionosphere,

a series of disembodied beings nurturing their wisdom on the slow motion 

wail of civilizations bursting like poisoned flowers out of the flesh

of the earth, bougainvillea and bombs, the calculus of infinity

like some strange anti-math, every degree of wisdom washed by the 

Professorial howl of the mockingbird on the edge of the city park 

dripping with the discarded wings of the Dragon that rises on winds

from inside the skull of the human that sleeps. 

***

Incandescent Overtures of a Vineyard of Fluorescent Eyelid

RATE: 0 Flag 

 An orange jelly of dandelion jeweled against the contours of her 

fingerprint, every shadow of God igniting in the sweetness of it's

own self perfuming insanity.  The grass was sweet like a Gypsy's skin,

miracle after miracle pronouncing it's own face in the symmetry 

of the Last Tribe that gathered it's children under a broomlike wing

whose sweeping was heard as far away as Aldebaraan, where the 

Emperor of the Imaginary world was sleeping like a thistle bathed in wine

and the syntactical heresy of undiscovered sciences.

*

The wind changed direction the moment the Pinecone fell onto the sidewalk.

There were twelve thousand soldiers whose eyes were waiting in the sky,

their mouths open like red and white umbrellas, every word 

that gurgled in their chest reminiscent of some speech that made 

incandescent overtures to the Life of the Philosopher who set the wheel spinning 

in some distant past, the moment the lightning struck and the fire began,

and the edge of the forest seemed draped in the hair of an eldritch priestess,

her footprints pressed into the starlight as if the galaxies were grapes. 

***

A lattice of Crystalline Architectures Laced in Light

RATE: 0 Flag 

Out there, in the hillside, they fell asleep, unwitting 

and lost.  Like fish being swept into the wedding of the thundercloud 

and the rose. 

the night and the day exchanged a series of strange vows.

Outside of their flesh, there was a lattice of crystalline

architectures, every trace of carbon and light, syntax of the angels

racing around the world on self constructing bridges  of impermanance

and imagination.

*

At the moment of perfect convergence: the heart drops in volume,

a pulse within a pulse, the interference pattern of creation, 

the modalities of magic and the synthesis of disincarnate energies.

They know nothing, in the flood of light. Just an endless series 

of theories weaved by theories that weave themselves around the universe

in supernatural infancies of unfinished divinity, as if God was a Baby

that had not yet been born, lurking in the wasteland the way 

a ruby waits for the sunlight to carve an undiscovered name in the soil. 

*

The parade that began in the forest --- a strange gathering of elves,

performing Mozartesque intricacies around the timbre of golden 

fruit --- a grasshopper mouth lifting itself into the starlight, 

the rotting husk of a tree that contains stories that contain stories

within a permutation of an almost chocolate scented fool's gold,

the fleshy embers igniting with the world that contains the moonlit 

memory of Who?  Howl the Now-less Owl, bursting on a beak and a tongue

down cartwheeling refrains of some gypsy pyrotechnic, the wings 

pulsed with the thermodynamics of Heaven and Hell, whose mysteries 

are the anarchy of an Immortal uncertainty, where the lost art 

of Freedom is draped in blue clover and the discotheque of Ghosts 

named only by the electromagnetic urgency of their rebirth into the 

constellating mirror of unfinished Gods. 

*

On the floor, they found a burst of wild wood, cherry flavored 

eyelids that seemed like they had been placed there by the Elves themselves.

Footprints of a Beggar that turned like the night, around and around 

in spiralling choreographs of illuminated nonsense, 

where the psychotic ballerinoa Vaslav Nijinsky was having conversations 

with the strange sunbursts that stretched from the inside of his 

brain to the edge of the lost horizon, 

a century of blood and dissolution that could not remain. 

***

An Umbrella of Bewitched Penumbra

RATE: 0 Flag 

a catacomb of surrender; billowing with the lost art --- is unbalanced

by the laughter that turns over the top of the trees, where a thousand

chrysanthemums have placed their wisdom, waiting for the edge of the sky

to descend.  Under this auspicious penumbra of farewell into farewell,

the dalliance of the angels is witnessed by realms of nothingness,

a liars golden tongue that rises against the night like a flag full 

of stars that do not shine.  A wilderness of certainty.  The philosophy that 

coils the heart into ribbons of rigor mortis, a paralyzing 

wisdom of the grave --- where there is no library, no turning of the constellations,

the erudition of the unfinished sermon, wandering between the inkblots

that spin inside the human brain like so many roulette wheels, every 

century a gathering of thunder that converges in sudden negative entropy,

the field appearing like a witches umbrella, gathering rain 

as if it was diamonds of God's insanity.  The daffodils rise in armies

of weathervanes, their stamens decorating the brazen fluorescence of heaven 

with the lost thoughts of the werewolves perched between the 

dream and the pain of the ordinary world, myth by myth, an eternal exposition 

of algorithms and the wild hysteria of vagabonds whose wings are crafted to 

fly towards the center of the earth, the elements wait like caskets of angelic

magnificence.  The world between world has no comprehension of the history 

that does not explain itself.  The nursery rhymes that howl long after childhood,

the fastidious necromancy of the night, Andromedan hypnosis a trance bearing 

wind that catapaults the engine of heaven through the flesh of antelopes

that drown in the embers of sleep, where the miracle is not a miracle at all,

but a semblance of the desert that gave birth to a bolt of blue lightning,

when there was no rain, no eye, no wisdom, but a strange desert prophet 

absorbing the imagination of the mysterious mystery. 

*

In the doorway, a blue thing is standing, pursed eyelids containing 

the treasure of pirates and aliens, those who never arrive,

those who tour the world on balance beams of light, their very souls 

disconnected by the Lie of the Lie itself, every eyelash coated with 

a murmur of Ghosts. 

***

Writing on the 9 Nov, 1938 events known as "Krystallnacht"

RATE: 0 Flag 

Today is the 73rd year after Krystallnacht, "The Night of Broken Glass" ... a day, that 'will exist in infamy' --- 

for the ages. The events of that day in Germany are incomprehensible; of course, they are a step in the development 

of World War II and the event known as the Holocaust. Reading and studying the history over time --- as a modern 

American who had family that lived in Frankfurt just a few city blocks away, in the same neighborhood as the family 

of the writer Anne and her sister, Margot Frank --- the sense of disbelief that events could happen as they did at 

that time, is unfathomable. One begins with the premise that everyone in that neighborhood was once just relatively 

ordinary people, modern Europeans, living normal lives. Then with the arrival of the fascists --- there is a 

fundamental disruption of the Ordinary World. And on Krystallnacht, thus begins a total dissolution of essential 

humanity that is unparalleled in history, not only because of it's intensity but because of it's immersive 

proximity to even this year 2012. We must remember: there are people --- right now, perhaps having lunch in a 

shopping mall, old men and women, quietly minding their own lives, who are alive today --- who experienced those 

events from the beginning; not as movies, not as stories, not as ideas, not as theories, but as Life. And this 

makes those events not yet 'history' but still 'current events' whose impact is not unfinished in their impact upon 

human existence. A current event does not become 'history' until the last person who experienced that event has 

perished. As a modern American, one reads about Krystallnacht and finds (incomprehensible) actions taken by 

previously normal "germans" and otherwise ordinary "jews" and the mind becomes incapable of resolving the 

questions. In 1938 Europe --- to include Paris and Berlin, the Italian Rome --- was experiencing the Cosmopolitan 

invincibility of the first Modern age. They had Cabaret, Jazz, Gone With the Wind, Electricity, Telephones, the 

Automobile, the new machine based society. And then: the Fascists arrived on the scene. And from November 9, 1938 

on: the horror stories begin to escalate. And the stories that began on Krystallnacht that are real --- make the 

'horrors' of most of our modern society seem artificial. Which is a cynical comment on the modern age, but true to 

the incomprehensible horrors of 1933 - 1945. One reads the personal stories of Krystallnacht and is one is 

phenomenally shocked about the immediate capacity of the "ordinary germans" to turn violent, psychotic, deathly and 

ghastly surreal, destroying everything good and sacred in their path. There are hundreds of theories about how 

these events happened. None --- none --- of them truly suffice, because the only thing there is to know is that the 

eventuality of what happened between 1933-1945 is just wordlessly incomprehensible. One can only observe the events 

from the present moment and abide in transcendent contemplation. The constant awareness of the fact that those 

events actually once happened. They are not fiction, they are not that distant, they are not just stories told by 

old people. Never Again, is the only 'moral' --- if morals are possible under such unfathomable concepts. But the 

questions are endless. And there is a point where the questions cease and silence of the unknowable begins. But the 

first question is --- how??? How did ordinary people of any ethnicity or background get swept into such furious and 

irrevocable, incomprehensible, unforgivable disasters??? If one then imagines, as I do --- my Father's families 

life --- three children born in the early 1920's, two parents --- who were again (just ordinary people) prior to 

the empowerment of the fascists ... ordinary people living just a few city blocks away from the young girl Anne 

Frank who wanted to be a writer, and her Family ... then even today, there is a moment to moment sense of 

alienation. It is as if there is a world behind a world, a series of events both possible and impossible at the 

same time. As an American, a modern person, my personal antipathy towards the fascists of that or any other Era is 

unfathomable. The damage to human consciousness and the sacred reality of life that was perpetuated is too 

profound, and there is no way to exist integrally without thoroughly acknowledging the horrific events of 1933-

1945, and the fact that they *could* happen, much also otherwise that they *did* happen. This is not to be 

forgotten. The fact that they *could* happen, and the fact that they *did* happen. There is a city park in the area 

of Frankfurt where the Anne Frank family and many thousands of others like them and my Father's family once lived 

--- and I just recently discovered the proximity of the neighborhood --- and I now ask myself if perhaps in 1932, 

when my Father and his Sisters were children --- perhaps both families, with dozens of others shared a pleasant day 

in that park --- then ... what happened? Events began that were 'outside of anyone's control' and ... what 

happened??? The first and most comprehensible, identifiable and controllable part of the problem is an elementary 

political method: Propaganda. Propaganda controlled the Human Mind. Propaganda generated negativity. Propaganda 

using the mass technique of Mind Control. False concepts, wrongful principles, negative methods of power, all 

deconstructing and denying human beings essential freedoms, forbidding interaction and limiting the Ordinary World, 

changing the way people thought about each other, turning person against person. For no reason whatsoever. That's 

how it began, that's how it escalated, that's how the human heart was altered. Radio, movies, newspapers, books, 

posters. Think about it. Think of two parallel media events in America ... Orson Welles "War of the Worlds" and any 

great movie ... such as "Star Wars" --- and how they are -- to any 12 year old kid --- unprecedented excitement. 

This does not explain how an ordinary neighborhood like Riederwald, Frankfurt --- could be systematically divided 

and destroyed and in the process of the next 12 years --- exist under forces propagating horror that led to 

50,000,000 people eventually dying senseless war-time deaths. The stories of the actions taken by "germans" upon 

"jews" are beyond anyone's understanding. And once one apprehends the problems, one must be very careful not to 

allow the Ordinary world --- the goodness of the Modern Day be lost and forsaken to the horrors of history. There 

are thousands of books written about the events of that time, and there are still no true answers. There is only 

the 'lesson' of *Never Again* ... and one asks constantly: has it been learned??? Will that lesson ever be 

achieved, and when will the Human War end??? When one reads, as a modern American: the stories of Krystallnacht --- 

which is a turning point in history --- you become stunned by the strangeness of the events, point by point. It 

does not make sense. At all. None. No-sense. Whatsoever. Not in a fundamental human sense of what is possible as a 

human being. There are parallels in ancient history, and events that are similar in disaster and horror even today 

--- but perhaps it is because of the modernity of those people --- their normalcy that existed in Berlin, Paris, 

Madrid, Rome, Moscow, before World War II that time: that the lessons, the problems --- the absolute horror and 

lesson of history must be acknowledged and unforgotten. And then, the question must be asked, and always 

considered: How do these problems translate to the modern world???

***

Inside Out Verbs Spinning Incarnations of the Last Adjective

RATE: 0 Flag 

A twisted wisp of scarlet around the stop sign,

 

underneath the shadow

of the highschool football stadium.  It is not light.  It is not shadow.

Around the curvature of the  human eye,

 

as if it was an enchanted entrance

 

to the beginning of time,  the Pantheon of  Gods

does not wait for it's audience to arrive.  It collects data the way 

the starlight collects human souls.  Indifferently,  thousands of 

 

eyelids washed naked by the 

fantasia of memories spinning inside and out,

 

across membranes and axons and dendrites

 

that  churn with the light of infinity,

 

something that leads every thought down boulevards

 

of consciousness that cannot be found on any map,

 

in any word. Prayer shaped landscapes laced with

 

beings in permanent disguise. 

 

 A single leaf

spins a spidery glance against a tree made of raindrop bones.

 

A tennis shoe bathes  itself in  the exotic wings of crushed crickets. 

There are human voices  in her ear.  Shriek winged vowels.

Kitelike children of contagious melodies on the edge of tongues,

 

pouncing like wildcats

across the eardrum. Zombies tapdancing in hurricanes of reckless whispers.

It is the way the world begins, and ends and begins again, 

every single moment in every single day, ad infinitum.  Seven hawks sleeping in the wind.

A wooden branch shaking with a leaf, but as witnessed from the eyes 

of a Widow whose heart is drenched with Italian maladies. 

The night carved a racetrack around the constellation Arcturus. There were 

lipsticked anarchists spinning coins in the drainage ditch, those 

stoned stoners unhinged by the sight of Leviathan in the rear view mirror,

a generation of disembodied transcendentalists whose names can be heard 

sung spun by cotton candy in the darkness of the convenience store, 

where even the fluorescent light seems like it was created by some 

magician of improbable madness.  A cigarette butt sits on the ground like 

a spent shell casing.  Her eye is blackened by the thought of the dream

that does not arrive, an empty brain that seems like a pool of meat

unlit by wisdom or jabberwocky, the slow train of being stranded in an 

oasis of purple noise, the kind that the grasshoppers discuss when Socrates

ghost dances through the suburbs, and the Universe begins it's inquisitions

into how and what and who and when and where and which and why,

like some ventriloquist giving birth to a Mime, only the Mime 

is the Ventriloquists Mother, and neither of them can understand the 

way the World is constructed, as if it was a theatrical performance

controlled by something that exists only in the place where the Universe 

itself does not.   The ghost of Socrates begins to chase the future philosophers

under the hemlock, through the boulevards where they occasionally find tumbleweeds

and the beer cans are laced with crystal meth and the wing of the crows

is like a supernatural bow and arrow.  There is a gasoline rainbow 

growing in the century of the Sun.  On the wild escarpments of the City street,

the curb is a broken bone, full of dog's hearts and Cadillac furies,

gossip faced strangers whose cheekbones are jigsaw puzzles.  Training 

begins the moment the Strange Lights are observed.  They move through the 

day, the night, oblivious to the ordinary world.  They are conscious & real

and not just conscious, and not just real.  Perhaps angelic. Perhaps

transcendent.  Perhaps disorganized ghosts. The symphonic light, 

which is (as Lao Tzu, Hermes Trigemestus, etc) observed, rattles the brain 

the way the Lion Tamer escapes through the hay at the edge of the Circus Tent,

and the Lion laughs in that sudden way that is coded in the book 

that is not readily read.  It is there.  It sleeps, it arrives, backwards

and upside down, inside out verbs.  Species of plants and the nature of 

madness contained in it's etchings.  An ink of hypnotic contagions,

every syllable of every incomprehensible word like the sound of an engine

growling in some distant Paradox. 

***

A Wild Equation of Synergies and the Gardening Starlight

RATE: 0 Flag 

the pale blue trembling of saints, they discovered

was written everywhere, 

but in movements of light into chiarscuro,

the pastel timbre of sunlight splashing against a face through 

a windowpane, cameras rotating in perfectly synchronized

paranoia of the Astronaut's niece, her heart jumping down the 

street as if the world was constructed by circus folk,

the moon was indescribable, a satellite containing the 

beings who knew everything, 

and slept only during the day, like the fish in the wind

around the other side of the world

where who knows what ever happened. 

*

An umbrella of superstitious clouds assembled like a mountaintop

against the weight of starlight,  a thunderous gathering in which 

every fashion of being might potentially be witnessed gathering 

it's being in the unfolding of the sky.  A pegasus, a white dandelion

the arms of some unfinished mannequin spinning in clockworks

like Siva itself, conspiratorial whispers of Gypsys who have remained

alive since the beginning of untellable time. 

***

Under this umbrella, there was a patch of wild neutrons,

none of whom knew it was a neutron at all, 

but lived in a state of wildly speculative indeterminacy,

just as the philosophers described some several thousand light years

away from the place that the scenario had begun to begin with. 

*

Chatting in that ancient silence, a polka dot erupted amongst the bougainvillea.

It was in  the temple of this event --  otherwise known as an Apex, 

that the Zenith developed a curve of unparalleled parallelograms,

each one descending down arpeggios of non local consciousness 

until the Polka Dot entered the white noise of the Dragon Flies Eye,

and a century of explainations dissolved into a whirling composition 

of mystery.  

*

On the edge of the wing there is a jazz like wake of weirdness;

waves that construct interference patterns the same way the Dragonfly 

constructs a theory of Human evolution.  Watching from the Temple of 

the Apex, where the true world is balanced in wild equations left over

from the beginning of time,

the Polka dot lifted it's eyelids around a synergy of gardening starlight. 

*

***

An Anonymous Noun on Neutral Supernova Avenue

RATE: 0 Flag 

The maroon mariner;  a

 

ghost of felicity creeps,

 

on  barefoot messenger's feet,

every toeprint chasing cataclysms like lizard's fists

 

raised into the hurricane of 

 

God's own Atheistic narcissism,  --- every trebled zephyr  

catapulting indescribable adjectives across uncertain chasms

 

into the spleen of an Eyeless Girl

who is sleeping in the razors,

 

her mouth trembling in octaves of the fortune teller's curse. 

 

  The machines are turning a trillion hearts 

over in their mouths, every pulse like a question that 

the supercomputing sunflower seed

 

cannot answer, ten thousand centuries

of encyclopedic wisdom nested in an aluminum phantasmagoria

that waits on the other side of the Mountain Gorilla's Skull,

where there is no silence save the silence of the dew and the

 

phosphorescent elderberries

the silence of the Magi who are Not Wise at all,

 

the eclipses arrive like postcards from Einstein at the bottom of 

 

the Universe,  

where the Old One stirs chocolate universes in a crystalline bowl,

 

the Name of the Cosmos bubbling in Octaves of LOve

 

and Anarchy, until the forgotten name comports across your Memory 

in parables of unlimited insanity,

 

the same way the Eyeless Girl carves her name 

in shapeshifting tattooes

 

upon the heart of the Vagabond sleeping between two mirrors

 

in hopes of finding a Maternity ward there.  

*

The world of bifurcating synergies is a prison of 

 

doorbells and windchimes.  The Machine on the Other Side

 

of the Machine begins to explain.  The Mountain Gorillas Skull

 

erupts in a fevered squall of Fantasia, quantum entanglement of

 

schizoid Vaudevillians,  

networks of Thought coded by the nostril fumes of

 

 Sleeping Princesses, the Mythological Madness of Pinecones

on the Verge of entering the Grasshopper's tongue.  The Crucifix walks

like the Shadow of Man in Zero Gravity, across the alchemical bridge

where Shakespeare is plagiarizing Dante with a shrieking howl of

 

madness, nodding off in drunken stupor under the rocks of Stonehenge,

 

a cresting wave of metempsychosis 

plagiarizing the whiteness of the post Euclidean Photons.

 

An  iris swivels in the Reeds,  her hips like a horse drawn carriage

 

swaying to the place where the Machines were once nothing more

than parallelograms and rumors of God amongst the Nihilist's Gardens,

the meaninglessness of Heaven and Hell exchanging wedding vows

 

like a dialogue 

between the Neuron of the Octopus and the Pyramids

 

that wander the  Starlight. 

*

On the way through into the theatre, there began a connectivist

 

caterwaul  of consciousness;

purple capes emblazoned with whirling asterisks, cruciform punctuation, 

 

Golden rays of an unborn  dragonflies ten thousand eyed smile,

the Orphaned laughter racing across the audience as if it was 

a mausoleum full of thunder washed mimes,

 

every face containing traces of what went on in the Library of Alexandria,

 skin twitching in eyelids rich with Socratic sadness, 

 

tongue by  tongue the human heart pressed against the mouth of God

 

 like a ballerinas foot placed

upon the bellybutton of a sleeping w***e.

 

  The rhythm of the theatre, a strange series 

of brownian hysteries--- fingers paused in perfect press, the way 

the eyes avoid the void of devoted constant awareness, a sensitivity to 

the perception of Gog and Magog, Leviathan billowing in the purple curtains,

a waltz of delusion, the suspense of the embryo paused on the edge 

of the Womb, pandemonium reborn in Act 3 where the 

Actors have no names, no lines, no language, no memory of the world 

save verbs and adjectives,

 

the last Noun like a Ship of supernova noumenon, fueled by prayers

 

and the pulsing of trillions of hearts alive in the

 

forever unknowable Night.  

***

That Strange Snowflake Madness as the UFO Emits a Polka Dot

RATE: 0 Flag 

An obelisk of enchanted penumbra.  

Above the billboard there is a Chinese Dragon,

her face containing the Miracles of Madness.

One eye faces inward, as the tongue describes itself 

to the God that Understands Nothing. 

The wings are forged by the clouds, a trail of nitrogenic nightmares

that coil on the edge of isobaric threshold the way 

the world coils on it's Y axis, 

a thermodynamic distortion of unfamiliar beings, containing legends

of the Dragon whose Mother was a riverside witch,

mossy rocks bathed in phosphorescent fire of leeches,

tongues and heartbeats of aphids and water nymphs 

licking the world into a whitewater frenzy, whose empathic

strangeness whisks the dragon out of the soil,

into the sky, across the ocean,

Pacific Pacifists like a curtain of chiraco winds,

descending upon the hillside billboards where 

a fisherman is whistling to nothingness. 

*

On the edge of the dragons wing, there is a still point of vortices;

quasicrystal derivatives, ambassadors from God's lost memory,

the tourists whose presence changes the structure of 

the world by the interpolation of possibilities.  Every eye, in this 

geodesic palindrome, waking and sleeping like vagabonds 

on the edge of the Highway:  is a stargate. 

*

On the far side of the dragon's spine, there is a mountaintop

full of self referential snowflakes.  An acrobat trapped inside 

the polygon exchanges wisdom with the uncurious void, 

every syllable of every neutron unbalancing the mountain top 

until the dragon is an avalanche of disbelief in itself,

and the Century arrives like the ghost of some far flung Pope,

whose spirit is nowhere and everywhere at once,

a flowering magistrate suspended above the Earth like the fingertips 

of a Nun fragmented in the light of the Sistine Chapel, 

where the Chinese Dragon has landed in a pastel timbre of non being.  

***

A Time Traveling Sundial sleeps in the Proverbs of Eunoia

RATE: 0 Flag 

a painted jaw, where the heartbeat explodes in  crystal emanations 

of sugar and rosicrucian furies.

 

 Sunlight squares the disorder, aligning question marks

like an army of freckles, a werewolf bridge  traced

 

with the midnight of mindlessness,

every garden scented with polka dots and blue vermilion 

and that strange taste ascended in that nest of clocklike 

bones, the human jaw where Picasso sees bullseyes and 

the curl of flags born ten thousand years ago.   The windowpane 

is another Arc d'Triomphe, surrendering it's memories to a vacuous

changing change, the piercing glass like an echo of some 

primordal membrane, the skin haunted by ghosts inside of ghosts

a russian malady, the cold volga of photovoltaic anarchy,

when even the Tunguskan monks knew nothing save the bloom of 

a fist above the treetops.  In the white eye, a curl of foaming 

alabaster wisdom: the hysteria of rhodopsins, the eyes like 

a kangaroo's purse, embryonic supercomputers sprouting 

violet frondescence against the magical orbit of electrons,

who enter the brain like Waitresses, 

serving wilderness the taste buds of God, bathing themselves in 

the wine that flickers in the adamantine eloquence

of Mozart's first glimpse of the mockingbird, above the strange 

point where the blueness and the yellowness exchange theories

of being that lead to the conclusion that the world is 

made of emptiness, a language that the dragons once contained

in their wings.  

On the Temple of Flickering Phantasms, the Metropolitan architect 

has placed the square root of Zero.  The wicked peonies, trapped in the 

light like so many Gamblers, 

waging wars of their love against the roof of the floor of the 

disappearing world, whisper heresies of insane anti-climactic

parables, the uncertainty as rich as a Nun's passage through a 

revolving door.  That day, when the jaw ignited in translucent 

pheremones, the Eagles balanced in the noble gasses, irradiant 

argon, kryptonite of the Saturnalian ancestors, the last glance

skyward racing from eye to eye where the Argonauts chase 

tennis balls around the heat death of unquiet Ophelia, 

whose name is traced in the lightning that strikes like 

the lost name, syllables of whitewater churning on the tongue 

until the forest gives birth to a Time Traveling Sundial. 

***

The Sky God Harbors a Hybrid Twilight of Elemental Ideations

RATE: 0 Flag 

A vortice of the demon, the click clock of the Ghost that Lives. 

 

Her eye is twitching like an open wound.  

 

A series of wires wraps itself around a discarded human fingernail.  

 

A Sky Hybrid, balancing the Tetragammatron on the edge of the Ionosphere is

 

 exchanging telephone numbers with the wind that blows,

 

turning a brush stroke of autumn leaves into puzzled fracture of

 

anarchist syllogisms, Adam and Eve studying the Serpent's face

 

that moment suspended in the Cake colored light of lost Eden.  

 

The hysteria breeds  an albino power

 

above the coffee cup of her shadow. 

 

Car thieves balance in the whiskey chamber

 

on the far side of Oblivion, their pulses dulled

by the blood of the grasshopper,

 

the eternity that sleeps in the skin in chambers of starlit sadness.

 

 

Whatever God of the Stoplights remains, remains to be described by 

scribes of indescribable ability, as the surface of the lake

unfolds in twin mirrors, and broken heart of the Medusa 

screams for your attention until the Labyrinth changes shapes in the 

Palace of Interconnected Mandalas. A dream zone, 

 

neurotransmitters exploding in perfumed entropy.  

 

They are not even mandalas at all,

but electromagnetic capillaries,

 

bristling with the the jeweled madness as if they  were Christmas presents

God forgets to give,

 

and that sleep in snowflaked sadness, melting into oblivion

 

on the banks of the banks of the vaulted vault,

a conspiracy of the Telepathic Ancestors of Ancient Ur,

 

the ululation of the muses lurking on whirlwinds of apollonian infinity,

where the empty seat is not an empty seat

 

but an ensorceled spaceship full of 

undiscovered consciousness,

 

every armchair astronaut, humming interdimensional fugues like

 

 Neal Armstrong of Christopher Columbus

dancing in a cage along the whorls of

 

a mysterious fingerprint, the size and the shape of 

 

the subterranean schism of  the Mirror Manhattan,

 

twelve thousand light years away --- where Buddha

 

sits bathed in unbroken infinities.  

*

The Oak billows,  a willowy owl howl of evolutionary love poems.

 

Branch by branch, the  artery churns wicked

 

breast whitened lilies into soup and shadow

 

inside the heart of the last Godzilla.

There are children's eyes on Channel Ninevah, seeking fire in

 

the number line, a  trillion apostolic

denouements determining the patterns that the Real World 

buries inside it's carnival maskes,

 

 an audience of Apostrophes, a Zoo of Punctuation Marks,

a Communist Comma rolling on a bicycle through a vineyard 

made of lightning and the magical thoughts of Sparrows whose

 

eyes contain the wisdom of God.  

*

The candlelight, they derived: is a supercomputer

 

chaining hieroglyphic infants into modalities of epiphenomenon, 

weather worn babies so new they will not be born 

until the Sky is fueled by exotic permutations of the  Fibonnaci 

Fractal, 

every  moment in every civilization  howling

 

with the psychology of the Video Game,

 

Gamma rays in the symphony of Mozart's lungs

 

emitting trills at magic adagio  at ten thousand 

Mona Lisa's per event horizon, until the strange eye that passes 

through the Flesh of the Living lifts like a docent through

 

the purgatorial museum,

witness within witness 

painting rainbows of mind numbing delirium across the canvas of  God's

 

favorite Lie.  

***

Supercomputing Mannequins Dancing in the Broken Glass

RATE: 0 Flag 

A clash between Reverend of phosphenes and the 

disincarnate word.  The architecture of the Castle is

 

early Hurricane, a blue nude exploding on the stairwell 

like the moment Dali discovered 

Tarantulas did not exist, but were refractory emanations of

the daydreams of  gila monsters, whose memories revolved around

 

a costumed saint sleeping in the purple yellow orange  embers of  the 

sunburnt blonde sunbathing in the candlelight at the

 

edge of armageddon,

singing pop songs to a swimming pool  in reverse

chronological order, until the ten million Car Thieves of

 

Las Vegas  

rush across  the horizon, and the moon is the Mask

 

of the Tarantula, and the first thought of the book of Genesis

 

begins slipping around a lions'

face.  The wicked linguistic synergies archangels,

wings within wings in colors of the  video game

 

that played the video game that played

a game of Thermonuclear Cthulhu in the mirror image

 

of Roaring Supercomputers and Rolling Stones, 

Christ rising in the catlike fog like the kind of Messiah

 

you will not  meet until the twilight 

arrives in on fringed zephyrs of eloquence bred by diamondesque

 

Intercessors, whose faces drift with a polygonal  

ecstasy of ten  million strangers competing to get 

drunk and pass out and roll on pillows of white blood

 

across the sky forged hot and wild

by ventriloquists tongues,

every unfinished heart burnished with the promise

that nothing will ever ever ever happen again, 

ten million rainbows deep inside the Convenience store where

 

a machine gun is disguised as

a particle rainbow, and the Frankensteins are drunk on

 

partially hydrogenated soybean oil, every poet screaming

 

in perfect simultaneity of absolute unknowable ignorance:  

the first thoughts are the greatest thoughts and the Universe 

 

is not what you think it is and  

God does not arrive until the end of the  thought of God

 

has escaped itself across the arboreal fringes

 

a canopy of  non-thoughts, tree top 

argonauts breaking like waves

that refuse to remain anonymous, 

Fairies balancing periwinkle paradox in the lipstick of an 

 

Exquisite Apparition, the  schizoid cerebellum bursts

 

into the fiery pantomime

of a Wine Glass explaining Wittgenstein to a Lampshade, 

photons of unity and disintegration churning in a

 

hippopatamus colored 

madness stretched taut until Dawn 

vomits the  European Comet of Godless Monarchs, and

 

the Cathedral of Nihilists dissolves itself into chinese pastries, 

a thousand manilla envelopes in the fingertips of

 

Robot Faced Cubists,

 

rolling out a magic carpet for the Vagabond that sleeps inside 

the Northern Lights, a constellation of Turtle Hearts, 

eyeless beings exchanging the comitragic perception

in sheets of unwritten infinity,

until the newspaper that dreams up new crimes and new worlds 

suddenly invades Ghostopolis,

 

where the copper pots are full of witch n*****s, 

of old Fascist's  fingerprints,  market bought H-Bombs, 

every ounce of gold and decaying uranium 

like a promise of some mad something waiting on the edge 

of the mouth of God, where Shakespeare is quoting Himself 

as if to  prove the Theatre of Heaven is not constructed until the 

television bursts into silence  and the ten thousand voids of 

the Living chess boards ignites with Vedic bewilderment and

 

the players 

laugh themselves into Theorems of Absolute Uncertainty, 

which is impossible to explain in the phenomenological sense

except to say that the Beings it Becomes become that which

 

the Uncreated creates,

and the end is nothing to begin with, until

 

there where the flesh is a porous membrane, the wave crests

 

into a starlit crown and everyone realizes nobody outlives

 

the ghosts that 

dance in the broken glass of history. 

***

Laughter of the Unimaginable G-d

RATE: 0 Flag 

the ruby of attenuated tranquility,

sparkling before it has been born

is a distillation of unsudden energies

that make no sense to the rubies that 

already exist, 

on the other side of the eye where the 

engines of the world are growling 

in triple time,

a vast environment of language that 

explains everything the way the 

tongue does not, 

there in the caves of Lasceaux,

when odd phenomenon originate in visions that crest 

across the surface of the collective cerebral cortex,

a wind of forgotten names.

*

On the edge of the razor, there is a mirror that races towards the throat

like a ballerina over the edge of the world,

to witness the abdomen of Christopher Columbus 

writhing with pretentious fire and the nightmare

of posterity, 

ten thousand Apostles burying ghosts in the electrolytic sand,

where birds

make decisions based on the numerology of the Tide,

the waves that arrive

like the eyelids of a Sea Hag

*

When the tongue and the razor sparkle with the memory of pomengranite

and the lost dog arrives in white linen,

a blueness erupts between Summers, there where the carpenter

is sleeping,

his body darker than a corpse, shaded only in parable and the 

exotic neuroticism of a Lazarus who 

wandered away from the grave on wooden feet,

disenchanted

by the Crucifixion as the eyes of the Roman Soldiers

rolled through their skulls 

like eggs on the edge of the void

*

A winter's tale, the styrofoam snowflakes are shimmering 

on a nuclear oasis, every Artificial village 

full of the Laughing Thieves, their drunk flesh spinning 

like a magic carpet 

spins through the eyes of a Genie,

no particular direction save the end and the beginning of all time

which is everywhere always at once,

no two names

or faces ever replicating themselves 

until the show is over and the applause

is an echo of something that 

few have ever heard,

perhaps it is the laughter of the unimaginable God. 

*

In the book of Unfinished Wisdom, there is a scene where 

the dark side of the road is illuminated 

by a choir of rainbows and the dream is coated in chrome

and fury,  flowery heartbeats nested in the silence and the hysteria of 

prophets seeking some world

other than the one 

descending through the clouds, 

that carnival of superstitions, 

like the open eyes of a newborn being 

enveloping the room with something that 

can never be explained.

* 

in the balancing of the engines:

steel, aluminum, glass, bone and fire, 

the night of mannequins seems like a furnace

of vanity, the curiousity of robots 

waiting to be born, 

as if they were being painted by some cosmological 

kamikaze, every footstep

traced in phosphoresence and the ink 

of a world that can never be unwritten,

lizards hunt butterflies on trampolines of 

starlight, the clouds that 

wait in the sky 

for the elephant to call some woman's name,

a trillion fantasias 

of the dead

whose enchantments bring the bougainvillea

to boil

in the shopping malls

made of bronze,

knick knacks and the vacuous gaze of pyromaniacs,

 

papier mache of mustaches whispering

 

like candelabras of uncertainty.  

***

Extrasensory Photons Sleep in a Chapel of Verb Blue Brain

RATE: 0 Flag 

Antelope?

 

A moon god elopes,

 

on Nyx,

 

a pixellated fractal,

 

lacrimose of wine,  the spine a conformation of the serpent 

 

whose rollercoaster bluely

 

carooms in the Waltzing zephyr,

 

Nefertiti surrenders in the copse of coptic light

 

down dawn, a  tightroped madman,

 

roaming somnambulistic chromosomal 

sleeping,

 

walked & talking clockwork universe 

 

of unfinished wisdom in the flesh fled freedom in twilight 

ancient criminals with eyes of meat and broken syntax

 

hunting neon  footsteps of that disenchanted Antelope 

until the Serengeti burns a turgid  dusk,

 

the penumbral mambo of bombast of the cusp and cask, 

wine  Mouthed Sphinx, an obelisk of strobes, 

a nested in the  orchestras, chaotic orchids of the 

 

Robot wobbling in the western jetstream

a Temple of the Underworld

 

like the Open Eye of a Ghost, 

blue Boulevards of  Ballads, the post Larval Ardor of Narcotic Carnivals, 

Kites on Superluminous  lemniscates

 

whose transcendental number line derives 

every  irreverant revelation

revealing a name of names within the nameless fame and 

anonymity of  trout mouths that swim soldier souled

 

on bonded ribbons of lost sunlight 

whirling like the  strange blue Mother  of  the  Fairy Tale of Time

until  the Fisherman's wife obeys the lawful language of the Sun 

ten thousand theories rave in whirling of the Stars and the 

dance of the rain in the rain of the rain and raining 

 

cosmological Brahmin races in Spanish pastures of unfinished Pain

like God, trembling naked  in the wheat 

and the Ballet of Endless Seashells, tumbling mummies 

 

of crushed trilobytes in the Mountain of the Dime Store Mimes

open wound of the endless womb of Disincarnate Peril, 

 

conspiratorial rotations  

of  the Antelope and  Wisemen in conspiracies of Slope 

 

whose name the Mountain top of Thunder cannot remember, 

 

the dream of God inside the phantom,

 

where the Nihilism begins  

*

A string of opalescent consequence:  the Mother of Pearl 

sways on zig zag Gaze of stark mad

 

Urchins and the corridor of reeds,

 

God's phantom infiltrations whistling nightmare of 

the Tide, every antiparticle sings  it's hymns

 

of Unknown Knowing, the night of light lost in the wilderness,

 

the unquiet synchronistic endlessness of Time

 

trapped in a Kiss, as the Map and the territory converge

and the Brain ignites in Zen of Zenith, 

ten thousand Omnivorous Photons

singing theories of the Void

Ten Billion memories colliding at the speed of Consciousness

 

until the Still point slides  a nightmare 

through the sunbeam in a flower sprouting in the Unlit eye

that surrenders no secrets until after the daylight is gone

and the Mind opens up into the Forgotten Theatre, 

angels within angels singing the endless

 

extrasensory refrain.  

***

In which Houdini's Telegrams are Delivered by Cloud Sylphs

RATE: 0 Flag 

The sentience of the Stone,

a manifesto of being, the heart of the unfinished 

Creator --- 

lost in the suburbs like Pablo Picasso trapped

in a city made of Billboards proclaiming the Birth 

of the Visigoths,

nuclear furies of that chattering Storm God

spinning like light 

in Harry Houdini's smile 

paused at the edge of the Stage,

ten million 

whispers balanced in the perfect timing, 

 of non linear, a temporal reverse causality, the retrograde fantasias,

of such negative entropy, 

the kind that twitches like a Pinwheel deep inside your Grandmother's eyelid 

until the room ignites in eviscera and fluttering jitterbugs of Wednesday's Child

woe within the unwritten tremors, the birthday cake that is an earthquake of 

incantations of the Thunder that the Grandfather  Grandfather

sings, finding some uncertain God of Gods

lost within the unfinished name,

as if ten thousand billboards

can explain everything, at the rate of Ten Thousand Surrealisimo's 

per every isolated lost quatrain,

a famished dream within the Inhuman Smile,

centuries of temples 

containing that which remain, 

absolutely Unexplained. 

*

Cartwheeling on a hoop of disincarnate ballerino's

the clock

turns silent, when the wisdom of God begins to race,

neutrino by neutrino

off the palace of the disappearing name, Nijinsky himself 

arriving in a Cadillac,

and the  language of Catholicity

rose by rose, the tulips and chrysanthemums 

explaining each unfinished Fire to the unquenchable thirst of the Autum Rain,

until the City bursts open like the inside of a Clock,

and winter descends

in a weather vane. 

***

Vishnu Carouselambra in the voice of Lazarus at the Tide

RATE: 0 Flag 

On the telephone wire, there is a Seabird

whose wings are white as a styrofoam cup,

but whose eyes shine with diamondesque empires,

a forgotten nation 

beyond the translation of squawks that hang in the ocean sky

like Dorian Gray 

or the prophecies of nostradamus, 

ten thousand million years of some unimaginable imagination,

glowing in electromagnetic 

ancestries, wing over wire, beaks full of fish that have 

swam through the hydrogen fire,

a pulse of conversation between housewives tripping down 

the telephone pole, 

every syllable of every word being monitored by some 

Satellite on the edge of the Sky,

where the Seagulls are certain,

there is an angel made of papier mache 

who can fix everything, 

one day when the ionosphere is emptied of the Ghost of Dali and Picasso

and the ladder arrives

in a fantastic brahmanic carouselambra of 

arboreal labors 

ascending 

*

As the Bird sways like a ventriloquists doll 

remembering the Immaculate Conception,

the philosophers trip on fingerprinted toes to the edge of the Sea,

the hair of Matisse

like a Seahorse, a Mannequin rehearsing the love song of Lazarus

to the mermaids on the other Side of the World,

where all entropy surrenders the moonlight 

through the soil of the earth,

into the strangeness of a space time curve 

known otherwise as the Summer Tide. 

***

The Story that Tells Stories to the Stories of the Story

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

Just some stranger, like a cloud.

She's wearing a mask, behind the face of anonymity,

a perpetual memory 

containing ten thousand episodes of some 

television set,

every photon like a blackbird stirring the world

around in a cauldron 

of superstitions.

Whose wings are being worn, on this thermal where the hawks 

balance in canyons of light and shade,

the lake like the portrait of a Queen,

the Sun a bomb that pulses in the flesh of all living beings,

footsteps of the Jester 

dancing like leaves around a bonfire with every flame 

rippling against the void,

until the Strangers realize there is a Story 

describing itself to them,

there where the Masks are like Oak Leaves 

and the Universe converges in a series of sequenced glances,

an eye to eye to eye to eye to eye 

explication of mystery, 

and the trees fall out of the dream 

and into the Brain,

hawk into hawk

balanced on the wind of the sunlight 

tripping wild embers 

around the surface of the lake,

and at the last instant of dusk, 

there is another world borne

a Maternity ward of Starlight, every star 

is a newborn child, 

waiting to be named

by 

***

The Starry Sky is a Wild Umbrella, Neurons in the Noun Storm

RATE: 0 Flag 

At the moment the Sky discovers your face,

 

the blueness like a rainstorm of adjectives,

 

opening the eyes like your Mother's Ghost arriving on 

curtains of fire and endless unsolvable 

mystery, a rotating carouselambra of the exquisite weirdness 

on the far horizon,

where it seems people might be laughing should the world 

one day prove not to be round, 

but that the Universe is actually inside out,

like the smile of a madwoman inside the maternity ward

where the truest insanity is brewing up an incalculable

future,

dozens of lives that will one day be places that nobody 

could have dreamt imaginable, 

assembling like strange birds in flocks of memory and wild admonitions 

of Paupers, the lives of the Saints memorized

the way an Iguana memorizes the wind in the leaves,

a strange rustling of infinities,

lightning bathed in the loam of a storm god's heart breaking 

existentialism,

when the weather vane in the center of the human brain 

begins to click 

in isobars and thermodynamic poetry,  the colors of the sky at twilight

churning like ice cream in an antelope's eye,

disbelief and wonderment

at some strange alchemical weirdness on the savannah 

where nothing glows 

until the darkness of the night has arrived,

the starry sky, a wild  umbrella constructed by a tribe of Mary Poppins

who live like the last thoughts of 

unborn children,

 

***

At the Bottom of the Sky, Underneath a Barefoot Shoe

RATE: 0 Flag 

Irradiant insanity, the ghost god turning cartwheels

around the X-Y axis,

at the moment the doorbell rings and the embers

race like astronauts to the scene of the crime that has not 

happened yet,

as if to explain in theory after theory 

why there are Three Crosses 

at Golgotha, the life span of the Wise Men 

indeterminate

and the Pyramids themselves are like UFO's made of Stone,

having never really landed,

but circle the universe in perfect disguise,

the Sphinx, like a postcard from Aldebaraan,

waiting on the edge of the conscience,

song after song 

billowing the imagination, with it's sudden unsolvable 

network of interconnected illusions,

until the Ghost God appears

at the bottom of the sky,

under the shoe

a single face stretched across time in ribbons of 

synchronicity and the notion that the only 

paradox is a paradox that is not a paradox at all 

***

Magical Adjective Trebles of Night in the Electron Blue Sky

RATE: 0 Flag 

the rainstorm began in a lapse between nodes:

a convective treble, birch scented and racing through the eye 

of the Night,

that strange eye that looks from the Inside Out, the first thought

of the electron,

hues and timbres of the Magi 

painted against the canvas of ______?

by a series of 

______?  whose nature not even confucius

could define, but that exists in the spheres of an abacus

the way the Seagull's beak

exists suspended in the sky,

the song of the clam at high tide

echoing in wet feathers as the centuries rise

and fall, 

the footprints of sandpipers washed in the rainbowy pastels

of Light,

the reeds of the Ocean 

quavering in cycles of imaginary sanity,

the Love life of Angels,

whose memory contains a chasm of electromagnetic 

oscillations,

no words no light no silence, no motion, 

a series of endless still points 

like Shakespeare's grave 

coiled with adjectives that have yet to be born. 

***

Logos and Sigil, the Vigilant Litany of Parallel Apparition

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

The cat, they said: does not know it's way through the Circus.  A wonderment struck like 

a bell in the heart. A cat?  Not comprehending the illuminations of the unreal world?

Suddenly a pulse, echoing in the maelstrom of unfathomable strangeness, 

erupted between the Beings:  a Doctor, a Lawyer, and an Indian Chief,

as they stood studying their shoes by the light of the turtledown moon.  

Through the window there appeared a series of folk songs 

whose names had nothing to do with the architecture of the world, 

but circle like diamonds around the lost heart of Venusian starlight,

remembering nothing, telling nothing, dwelling in the visionary ellipse

as if the Universe had been created by all simultaneous beings whose consciousness

was connected in ways that nothing could begin to explain.

On the edge of the night, there is a windowsill of unfinished admonitions.

Wintery charcoal, blue twilight chrysanthemums, a catalog of superstitions

and the face of the first faceless being, down from the top of the sky,

as  if it all was a recital composed of transubstantiating languages,

information theory they discuss in the Enchanted Here and Now,

Logos and Sigil, the vigilant litany of unfinished apparitions. 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

The Coincidental Tattoo in a Cathedral of Imaginary Tigers

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

there was a tribe, whose words were the color of leaves

spinning in a washing machine 

outside of a discotheque made of snowflakes

at the top of a mountain that only exists 

on certain occassions, because it is composed

of whispering owls and the last thoughts of the universe

as it arrives on it's way through the beginning of time

which is everywhere and nowhere all at once,

like the sky,

when discovered through the tunnel of a living eye

perhaps in the movies

where everyone is real except you,

and the language of madmen sounds like the speech 

of a newborn.

In that jungle of symphonies, the strange nocturne of the cricket wing,

the lost children wander with their footprints revealing 

the Fables of Easter and the Holy Days that have yet to be discovered,

the ones in which everything rhymes and the Circus of Heaven

is a Banquet of Fear and the Rumours of Something that lives in the 

green leaves like an Imaginary Tiger,

waiting to swallow the parrot, a collision 

of flesh in the middle of the darkness, 

the jungle echoing like a Cathedral containing 

accidental tourists, 

their eyes paused in the strange light of a philosophical 

vault,

where the human heart is a tattoo

of Coincidence.

***

The Creation of Tortoise in Dali's Intergalactic Galapagos

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

as the tortoise is assembled

by the ocean, a fantasia of finches 

gathering sunlight at the top of the cresting wave

suddenly realizes that their wings

are like baskets of rain,

purchasing knowledge one breath of God at a time,

when the night sky is laughing 

and the stars are chariots containing the common 

Grandfathers of Tortoise and Finches,

ancient prisoners lost in the past 

the way the much of the future is lost in the imagination 

and the present moment 

discovers it is neither a tortoise or a finch

but an ocean of potential,

waiting for the stars to carve something 

out of the universe, 

as thoughts arrive photon by photon, 

and the garden assembles the Story of God,

permutations of mystery,

 

the inviolable orchestration of that

 

that G-d does not itself comprehend;

 

***

A Cheek Bone Twitching in the Hologram

RATE: 0 Flag 

On that finger, there is a sapphire ring.  The curious curl

of the left side of a smile, an eye that brings the night 

to a boil.  Somewhere, out the window, a weathervane is spinning

like a whirling dervish,

pointing God to the beginnings of civilization itself.

In the yellow maroon blueness of that extraordinary point,

the human face becomes unbalanced, a cheek bone twitching in the

hologram.  A strange bird -- trapped between two mirrors,

purchases a crumb of bread from across the voidlike shopping mall.

The audience does not realize it is an audience. 

A pearl of insanity trips down the escalator, it's membranes

defined by human wisdom and the communication skills of thunder and rain,

the same language that arrives

at twilight when the Temples fall asleep and the lion's eye scans the horizon

to remember something it has not yet eaten,

sleeping in the grass like an unwritten word. 

*

The darkness of time, they bring to the surface of the human eye

is a circus containing endless Mimes.

The Bottle floats in the sephiroth, that unfinished conception 

full of endless variety of verbs and adjectives, myriad nouns 

and the enchantment that is the enchantment of 

uncertainty, which cannot remain uncertain in the symbolic overtures,

the symphonies

of the Jewels, the scintillations of eviscera. 

*

In the ear, there is a volcanic flood, a capillary of constellations,

the broccoli that reminds the human eye of the Oak tree suspended in the Paint 

of Michelangelo,

whose footsteps in the Vatican still can be heard

when the Sistine Chapel is balancing it's theories 

in the light of the setting Roman Sun. 

***

At the Top of the Sky, a Bottle of Mimes

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

At the top of the sky, the ghost of Nostradamus

is bathing his beard in the laughter of God,

just as the starlings arrive,

their wings turning over in cycles of dissonant

energies, every feather emblazoned

with the eyes of that great being whose body 

is larger than the universal Tao.

And in the weirdness of the language of thunder,

the clouds have mouths that rehearse the first words of the Bible,

in the Beginning, in the beginning,

in the beginnning, 

a nocturnal embouchure, the prairie was whistling like radioactive

madmen 

tumbling across beds as if they were fueled by the prayers of Columbus

and the wine dark magic of Greek lies.

*

A pantheon of noumenon, the nonesuch of saplings bringing world lines

to boil in a lobster pot. 

The caravanserai of collapsing constructions: Events with a probability of Negative Zero,

the acrobat 

lost on the edge of the Vine,

where the grapes are falling into the Mouth of 

a woman that has not yet been born,

but is waiting in the starlight 

as if it was a Bottle of Mimes.

*

 

As the curve of the danger erupts into reruns,

the climate of coincidence slips the symbols across the Table,

where the Gamblers assemble, 

a Coronation of Synchronicities, the laughter of Malthus and Sysiphus

arriving when the Wheel spins

and in through the door appears Gonzo,

Hunter Thompson carrying the Periodic table of the Elements,

Antimony Arsenic, Aluminum Iridium, Argon Krypton Nickle Neodemium,

the choir of Ancients that sleeps

in the substrate of the enchanted polygon

Pythagoras knew was lurking in the Fields where the Space is Curved

and nothing exists but the purity of God's madness,

a wishing well haunted 

as if it was a Bottle of Mimes.

***

The Paradox of an Apostolic Solstice: Molten Tea Cup Moons

RATE: 0 Flag 

The camoflage of Sanity.  Under the pillow, there is an ocean

of Motherly beings,

love shadowed antiquities whose cheeks are weathervanes

of memory.

A jaunt across the grass, on tiptoes in the chill of wintery bliss,

and the world 

is a cube of sugar.  The heart envelopes the red blood

in pink cheeks, an apostolic surrender into the ascension of 

sing song solipsisms, the winged wonder traced in the temples 

of the Human Face, and the top of the skull full of candles

the wind, 

the breathe of some being whose birthday is every moment,

the party of strangers advancing across time

a permanent surprise,

the rendezvous of a temporal elopements, waves rising and falling

with permutations of Ego,

combination locks of Mystery,  the waltz across 

Nonsense, like Lewis Carroll 

balancing Teacups at the Bottom  of the

Sea, as if to explain to the Moon 

something the Moon explains to the Sun

while the Sun itself chirps in the sky 

a golden something 

***

A Nest of Wild Eyelids Chirping in the Tundra

RATE: 0 Flag 

That summer, in her ears: the crickets chirped like wildflowers.

A nest of wild eyelids.

The language that exploded across tastebuds of uncommon complexity.

Elastic strawberry flower phantoms.

Wounded Ibis, one wing lowered against the skyscraper sky.

Flooding streets, whose rivulets are coded with ancient contagious maladies,

the laughter of thieves and clowns who sleep in beds made of nothingness.

*

Until the daydream began, She was staring out the window and listening to 

the Teacher prophesy the ten trillion nightmares of History in reverse,

every word like an unbalancing of innocence, the danger that begins in the

classroom, as silence is cured of it's metaphysical connotations and the bird

that lives in the human heart --- the secret bird of fire, 

a phoenix of uncontainable memories --- the sequence of syntax and context 

that breaks the chalkboard into fragmented compositions, revealing madmen

and the idolatry of indeterminate frequencies. 

*

A razor sliced across the horizon, like a truck containing the eggs of some monstrous

being, raised under the Consortium in some mysterious fielded void of Wyoming, 

the mechanistic madness of which not even Oppenheimer or Newton, could determine,

but that exists in some strange self assembling process whose methodologies

are alien and decohere in the light of the ordinary eye, leaving the engineers

to glance into the night, and contemplate the stars the way a Mother contemplates

the embryo in her womb. 

*

A strange taxi, containing men whose faces are wild and primitive and anonymous,

like blank checks scrawled with exploding ink and the numerology of desert prophets,

the modern desert prophet whose memory is full of children lost in the discotheque,

Saints with bifurcating philosophies, deriving the wisdom of God from the pulsing 

heartbeats of ghosts that sleep in the atmosphere waiting for some 

convergence of space and time to infiltrate the minds of the living before the 

construction is lost.  

*

Isaac Newton does not remember you.  His face is lost in the Oxygen, distributed

in brownian motion like the fantasies of your childhood are distributed in that 

thing called the past;  did that really happen?  The moment of discovery, when 

every snowflake seemed like a Grandfather, every eyelid became as gargantuan 

as the theatre where Shakespeare first taught Hamlet to talk?  That infancy amongst the 

shadows, under the admonishments of the Doctors whose books are made of 

pythagorean complexities, whose fingers have prints that read like Gutenberg's footsteps,

across the cracked streets, the cobblestone boulevards, 

the last light of the day erased like a kiss, disappearing through some door made

of wood that burns like a human heart?

*

In the cemetery, the white dog has turned over in it's sleep.   A nest of purple

entropy is fueled by the hydrogen light of the Sun, ten trillion signatures

without any identity.  The meaningless glance of an antelope, escaped from the Zoo,

racing through the moonlight on hooves across styrofoam cups.  Every moment of the

Civilized parade seeming rather like billiards broken by a vagabond, whose intentions

were written by the rocks themselves. 

*

A convenience store, the Baghavad Gita is curled like Ganesh, waiting in the corner

and smelling quite like the face of an Oak Tree, every word sizzling.  She slips around 

the corner on rubber galoshes. The universe responds like a cat smiling at a cat from 

ten thousand dog shadows away.  The acorn, placed on the ground by the Universal Conspiracy that 

is absolutely indescribable, suddenly begins to disintegrate, a slow folk explosion 

of nightmare and night, soil and soul, the flesh of it's particulate existence 

thundering with the rumors of dew, the politics of Creation and the general disbeleief

that anything could ever be happening at all.  The sidewalk does not respond.  The sidewalk

is like a clever tongue.  It slips into the sleep that trips across the trap of the feet,

turning the world upside down, a Cathedral of Unconsciousness, where the Ghosts are Haunted 

by Man, and the rainbow is not a rainbow, but a Being trained only to arrive at that

just moment when. 

*

He can hear the clock ticking, and the buzzing of halogen. There is a war.

There are children with bloody faces, nursing wounds of their Mothers whose feet 

have been blown off.   There is a lie that wants to burn the world down.

The click of the gun, the ticking of the clock.  Where to go? Towards the flame,

where the fire burns hottest and the silence of G-d is like a thought that has never been 

expressed.  Ten million libraries ofAlexandria at the touch of the human fingertips. 

One bomb.  One bullet.  One fire. One radioactive something trying to escape through the human 

mind and enter the world, but whose baby is it?  She pulls the trigger on 

her imaginary friend, and the dream bounces down the street like a polka dot on acid.

There are no words.  But to think of the moment the journey began, when John and Paul and George and Rngo 

sat by stonehenge, that impossible night.  Watching.  It had to have happened,

some Liverpudlian druidic fantasia burgeoning in the English skin.  The sound of harps,

dulcimers, who knows what? A single cloud racing through the starlight. Bullfrogs croaking in the boggy 

moss.  The thought of ten thousand years of who? being here, where the harmonies

might converge.  

*

The wine is placed at the edge of the table, but there are thieves disguised as Priests,

whose tongues are like knives waiting to slip into the vineyard and severe the dream

across dimensions, until the Starlight is a cup of bloody and drunken madness, every 

ligament of light breaking into thunders the human ear cannot contain,

but that churn.  The glass is made of flowers.  The nectar is contemplating suicide.

The angels have surrendered their beds to the terrorists.  The terrorists are arriving 

in Shakespearean costumes, Falstaff and King Lear, Ophelia --- eyes swallowing eyes

waiting for the Game to Begin, for the wrong word, the right word, the Order, the command

to attack and defend what is obviously incomprehensible.  The nostrils sizzle with perfumery 

of Gehenna.  A gallant shade escapes, undressing the angels as they flee across

the landscape of Billboards and Asphalt.  The wine swivels in the mouth of the Nothingness

the centuries converge.

*

A styrofoam cup full of Myrrh, found circling the shopping mall after it has closed,

has been arrested by the Archangels.  The interrogation of God by God 

has begun, a question: "What was I thinking?" dancing like a punctuation mark 

across Goethe's last love letter, which Hemingway discovered floating on the seas

between Catalonia and the Florida Keys, that night when the fish were as drunk 

as he was and nothing in the world made any god damned difference except to make the

entire surface of the sea seem like the absolute face of heaven, an emptiness as rich 

and true as the paradox that made the world begin.  There will be conversations about

the styrofoam cups that will sound like murder erupting in the Trees, the rainforest 

canopy where the Chimpanzees are wondering about those strange sounds in the sky,

call them airplanes or cruciforms, like sticks that can be thrown by something on the other 

side of the forest.  A human footstep, and the broken heart begins to burst.  There

is laughter, there is a change in the composition of the centuries.  The speed of light,

the promise of the night, is disintegrating around the X - Y axis of Infinity.

God does not appear.  There is something gone, like the piece of a jigsaw puzzle missing 

from a freshly opened box.  Something new, and broken, and unbelievably believable,

just as Nostradamus might have prophesied, that night (again) when the Vineyards

of Ardennes were dreaming up songs for John Paul George and Ringo to sing, 

Semolina Pilchard herself coming unwound in the French loam, her heart like a paint by 

number masterpiece, but where is the Eiffel Tower?  Waiting for the Empire State, the Statue of Liberty, 

the Great Wall of China and the Temple of the Mount to change colors?  the Chameleonic 

madness of synergy, human history some masquerade of insanity, every footstep 

of every human being like some camouflage against the field of the Lion's mouth.

Pointlessness, until the songs arrive on the tongue. 

Alouette.  Jonquils.  The language of doves and canaries, the mysterious syllables

that trip from the mouth across the air as if it was a trapeze, and the Human 

Ear an acrobat whose heart is bathed in prayers from the temple of synchronicity.

***

Sea Shanties at the End of Time when the Songs Make Sense

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

A single unpainted face, 

spirals around the room, 

leaving tracers of light 

in the daydream of Christ

as he hangs upside down from 

the chandelier,

singing Sea Shanties to 

the people at the end of time who have gathered their

names and placed them inside a paper cup,

to remind the Journalists that the world is composed

of various types of noise, the signatures

of Madmen balancing the Kingdom of Heaven in a Wine

Glass on the edge of the Skyscraper rooftop,

ten thousand centuries of human logic

suddenly falling in a hiss

through the eye of the needle,

landing in a circus of strangers

whose memory contains puzzles that cannot be determined to be puzzles

yet,

organize the way snowflakes organize into snowmen,

using the children as if to design an image of something 

that lived before life began,

a pattern

a quasi-sentient crystal 

 

gathering it's angels in the darkness,

listening 

for the wind to rustle and the Empire State Building 

to creak 

***

The Human Teardop is a Computerized Angel, a Dragonfly Said.

RATE: 0 Flag 

A human eye

bubbles like the ocean

rising into blueness  bursting

on the tranquilatum of an unmarried moon,

which enters the room, 

on  vowels of light, sleeping deep in the wheat of a

 

Shakespearean Soliloquy,

the phases  of Language waxing poetic like Hamlet 

balanced on the fulcrum of Silence

 

at the edge of the stage

where the Mad God Itself

is waiting to answer a question that wanders across the Library

disguised as a comma,

a moment of suspended intricacies,

 

the exquisite delirium of ink racing down

 

from Edgar Allen Poe's pen 

across the cerebellum of a child 

tripping at the edge of some Kentucky Lagoon

where the dragonflies dance like Starlit 

 

Magicians 

***

the human teardrop is computerized, they say, in dragonfly school.

It falls from the eye the way the Chinese abacus

fell from Confucius' memory, that night by the Blue Danube

when the Universe was not looking and the 

Histories of Man were infinitely interchangeable,

and every street orphan a potential Genghis Khan,

the Empress herself dancing naked on a barefoot rooftop 

at the end of the book written in the hieroglyphics 

 

of the Afterlife, a bridge of  zig zagging haiku 

 

whose  kundalini rises on the ghostlit  wings 

as ten thousand crickets

 

race their way to the crumbs that rest on the floor

of the Forbidden Palace,

where the Chromatic Dragon is lost inside the

 

filigree of silver eaves. 

***

The Magician Balances Memory in the Face of Strangers

RATE: 0 Flag 

A chess game in Cassiopiea 

as tthe eyes of a grasshopper,

ignite with the ten thousand flavors of Light 

the human eye a tastebud of consciousness 

 raining transcendental developments

into the place where a Village is tucked in bed

faces locked in puzzles of darkness burning 

algorithms of grasshopper curiousity,

 

the circuitry as rich as 

a Russian complexity,

the heart bursts on jeweled faberge,

the diamond  skull 

that swallows the void the way a Question mark 

swallows an  Exclaimation point 

13 harmonies erupting in the manifold of charismatic chasms

the schisms that balance in membranes 

the way a Magician balances his Mothers Face in the face of passing strangers,

where  the Miracle of creation 

is like a chess game between Chaos and Cosmos,

pantheons of Wild Unknowable Entities

arriving in sudden moves

without meaning, with meaning, the semantic magic of perpetual motion

Lives cast in Shadow and Irony, the denouement of 

the surrender

 

every moment a polygon of logical operators

Knight B1, Bishop on the diagonal, Rook to Center,

 

the Pawn that Vanishes like a Star at Dawn  

 

theories within theories

 

blooming on an Empty Boulevard 

 

*

Do the dolphins arrive

 

in the heart like Soldiers???

Do they wear their eyes as if they were constructed by some mysterious 

being in the Abyss? 

Does a shark circle the Ocean praying for some tuna to

 

enter the Theatre of the Shark's Mouth, 

as prayers by prayer, the Centuries go  answered

 

until the perfect  moment when 

the Hurricane envelopes the moon, a voice 

 

swings across the starlight bearing gifts of the Magi,

 

infinity  

swallowing the heart of the Woman the way an astronaut 

 

bounces on the  surface of the moon in a cartoon 

 

of neutral buoyancy,

 

until the God of the God that is the God of the God of the God  

arrives and the audience

 

suddenly grows sleepy and puts down the remote control 

and the night dissolves into a mysterious series 

of punctuation marks, jabberwocky of clocks and broken 

 

thoughts, pyramid faced night sighs a thousand

 

exclaimation points,

 

and the parenthesis of Sleep within Sleep

 

becomes a Temple of the Unknown Sun.  

***

The Magician Balances Memory in the Face of Strangers

RATE: 0 Flag 

A chess game in Cassiopiea 

as tthe eyes of a grasshopper,

ignite with the ten thousand flavors of Light 

the human eye a tastebud of consciousness 

 raining transcendental developments

into the place where a Village is tucked in bed

faces locked in puzzles of darkness burning 

algorithms of grasshopper curiousity,

 

the circuitry as rich as 

a Russian complexity,

the heart bursts on jeweled faberge,

the diamond  skull 

that swallows the void the way a Question mark 

swallows an  Exclaimation point 

13 harmonies erupting in the manifold of charismatic chasms

the schisms that balance in membranes 

the way a Magician balances his Mothers Face in the face of passing strangers,

where  the Miracle of creation 

is like a chess game between Chaos and Cosmos,

pantheons of Wild Unknowable Entities

arriving in sudden moves

without meaning, with meaning, the semantic magic of perpetual motion

Lives cast in Shadow and Irony, the denouement of 

the surrender

 

every moment a polygon of logical operators

Knight B1, Bishop on the diagonal, Rook to Center,

 

the Pawn that Vanishes like a Star at Dawn  

 

theories within theories

 

blooming on an Empty Boulevard 

 

*

Do the dolphins arrive

 

in the heart like Soldiers???

Do they wear their eyes as if they were constructed by some mysterious 

being in the Abyss? 

Does a shark circle the Ocean praying for some tuna to

 

enter the Theatre of the Shark's Mouth, 

as prayers by prayer, the Centuries go  answered

 

until the perfect  moment when 

the Hurricane envelopes the moon, a voice 

 

swings across the starlight bearing gifts of the Magi,

 

infinity  

swallowing the heart of the Woman the way an astronaut 

 

bounces on the  surface of the moon in a cartoon 

 

of neutral buoyancy,

 

until the God of the God that is the God of the God of the God  

arrives and the audience

 

suddenly grows sleepy and puts down the remote control 

and the night dissolves into a mysterious series 

of punctuation marks, jabberwocky of clocks and broken 

 

thoughts, pyramid faced night sighs a thousand

 

exclaimation points,

 

and the parenthesis of Sleep within Sleep

 

becomes a Temple of the Unknown Sun.  

***

Why are the Pyramids not Mentioned in the Bible

RATE: 1 Flag 

On the way through the Garden

they discovered the life of God was inhabited

by thought-breathing lungs, 

a choir singing Fables of Oxygen,

 

atoms of Platonic fire into the fluorescence of the arboreal

chamber,

every fluorescent scent

 

like the madness of Thieves, billowing from cheek to cheek 

as if by design,

stealing the laughter of Ferns and heartache of

 

disembodied Rhododendrons as they collapse 

on the tongue in kingdoms of papier mache 

and the seven million languages of heaven ---

igniting the clouds in hieroglyphics that dance

 

across the American Sky as if it was a blueprint of Infinity 

revealing  fact by fact, strange foreshadowing that the Pyramids

are not mentioned one single time 

in the entire Bible,

but neither is Charles Bukowski or 

the Empire State building, Hula Hoops or the Great Wall of China, 

unless you can read the books with the New Eyes that find

 

vowels hidden in the transcendental vowel of the  human mind

 

and as the eyes begin to waltz like firemen through a Kingdom of Fish

performing the Legend of honeybees that Surrender their Mouths

to the dream of the hive,  every footstep 

charged with exaltations and  music

 

that is everywhere and nowhere at once,

an afterlife where the  Ballerino Nijinsky 

becomes that which the Ballerino Nijinsky 

is not, while off in some far flung antechamber of the

 

Disintegrating Ark,

Rasputin is calculating Pi 

by the light of the Siberian Moon,

 

and the prayers of God arrive

 

in postcards of atomic impossibility.  

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

One Zero One Zero One Elopes into the Polka Dots of Night

RATE: 0 Flag 

The eyes began to intercept

 

the wisdom of God in a glass of emptiness wine.

 

Drunk. She dissolved like sugar into sadness

 

and determined She 

 

did not even exist.  Not at all, not in any way.

 

The television gave birth to a lizard

 

the lizard gave birth to a cloud

 

the cloud gave birth to an angel

 

who sat on the ground like Ulysses,

 

his face as golden as a box of coins. 

 

 

 A Stupor of Intelligence negated the room

 

with the sudden comprehension

that the potato faced Waitress was right.

There were polka dots balanced

 

like Leopards --- waiting in the clouds, outside the window 

where the rock song began to announce

a babylonian pandemonium

 

of  random numbers

and the life cycle of the archangels,

the tips of their wings brushing against the skin 

in algorithms of coincidence,

and synchronicity,  mysterious events that converge

 

in perpetual simultaneity

and the passage of madness through the straightjacket Lies

leaving Mothers eyes

 

to writhe with the Insanity of Heaven in the maternity ward,

 

revealing the hearse in the candlelight,

 

the exoskeleton of God that shimmers like a styrofoam cup

candelabra and carouselambra

igniting with the phantoms and quiescence

as the ocean disappears on the tongue of God in the twilight,

leaving those gathered on the beach to wonder

where the Waitress has gone,  the hole in her eyes like a Moon full of 

footsteps

 

traipsing off into some blue fever that reminds

the Polka Dots that God is  balanced everywhere, 

unbalanced everywhere,

 

a spacetime event that has an Infinite Probability 

but still does not actually ever happen,

like a Memory of Jaguars

 

juxtaposited nursing their wounds inside a supercomputer 

 

churning one zero one zero one zero rainforest nightmare of Time 

and the Many Worlds Theory sings like a fire

 

of infinite  variables

as the Human Brain burns itself into the Perpetual Sitcom 

 

details at Nine.  

***

Seven Fish Circle Sundials

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

Non trivial data,

nested in the sky like a boom box of Bluebirds

caked purple icing,  daydream of the Holocene,

rising against the Madness of G-d on a Kite of No Logic Logic

a perfumery of raindrops in the sunlight,

seven loose lipped fish circling the shopping mall

of the surface of the Lake, bop Kabbalah 

of eyes within eyes  within eyes within eyes

 

the surprise party hidden in the sky

where the Wise Men know they are 

not sleeping,

 

their tambourines pursed in the strange fire

of  the Uncreated Creation,

 

a place where the Memory of Man 

is fueled with Imaginary Beings, the Petroleum Specter 

that exhales Blue Black Fumes of Some Purgatorial  Bluebird 

against the Many Worlds of the Copenhagen Interpretation

spinning like  coffee cups  in some parisian twilight 

 

where Van Goghs eyes have arrived, dressed in aluminum foil  

seeking Cafe Procope and Voltaire in

 

the heartbeat of Benjamin Franklin 

and the sound of the  Madame Madman,

 

Marco Polo Appolinaire Extraordinaire

whisking a jut jawed broom into the witch blind night of 

a golems of eternity braided

 

in nocturne and  glissandos of dolphin songs

singing the paradox of the paradox that is not a paradox 

but an actual manifestation of the Unreal, the Unforgivable 

Night, where the  Lake has been clever enough to deliver a message 

from the Beginning of Time

a hydrogen unity of composite transpositions,

 

Octaves of the essential Space Time Curve

that Leaves the Cafe spinning in cycles of Endless Superstitions

until a dish breaks and Van Gogh slips into the ceiling

a room full 0f  eyes like a school of fish

witnessing a shark 

slipping from the Womb of Infinite Imaginatuion, it's mouth

 

 like a Magical Moon, the Door to Nothingness 

seeing something that nothing understands

the ululations of Infinity in Everything Everywhere 

 

Always  

***

On Edge of Eyelid, where You End, in the Sky of Wind & Lies

RATE: 0 Flag 

a cruel sun, noose jester of birdbaths 

the perfumed dust where an old woman cruises 

into sleep down columns of Spanish Moss,

dripping teardrops of snot and curls of broken dream fire

heart thundering place where her children have gathered

like angels surrounded by Soldiers waiting for

 

the lost instructions to arrive, 

some future song of insanity to save us fro

 

that which sleeps in  the summer time dust 

toxic plumes of Tigers involved in the perpetually

 

 bloodthirsty adventure,

full of dragons and pyromaniacs bathing their finger tips in

 

Fools  gold of  gorgons

 

and the Top Hat Spins like a Hindu Wind

 

of swastikas moving like clocks

 

against time to prove nothing to the nihilists against the 

 

machinations of Hieronymous Bosch and the lost teeth  

of Leonardo

 

whose Great Grandmother knew that gypsies

 

slept deep in the Italian hillsides, covered by the 

 

thoughts of vagabond salamanders and the Pinecones could

 

sing  

in languages that fall from the eyes of God

in refractions of scintilla

 

buddhist easter  Eggs bursting from the wounded Gypsy

at just the moment Immaculate Caravanserai arrived, and the sounds

of the City that Hides in the Forest

 

spills from the wings of the Birds

 

in mid flight, a dinosaur cawing like a Prayer of Infinite  

Surprise,

 

the red ruby rose  rushing up the mountain to the Top 

of theTemple of Snow and Sorrow of Solomon,

 

where the footprints of man are painted

in drifting swift If Then Go To Never Ever Ever

 

Infinite Logic of Archaeons, Taoist Taoists

 

whose eyes burst like Coffins 

into orange blossoms and particulate sapphires

 

of tambourines and the horse 

 

whose hooves clop clop clop  through the Zenith of the Sky

until nobody remembers anything

 

except the Centuries of Mankind disappearing into blueness

as if the Sky was a cake full of Library Books

waiting to be eaten,

by the dragon that sleeps in the wounds of the

 

God that does not Believe that God Exists 

*

On the street, there was a hammer and a jewel,

 

a pile of coins and a broken beer 

bottle that crushed the feet of Orphans into the gutter

where the earth had curled around a burnt

 

piece of Toast, like a hologram of the Virgin Mary

 

appearing in the depths of the Suburban Sky

 

between commercials when the Grandpa has

 

lost the remote control and all the wisdom in the world

 

is drunk and fishing for moonbeams in a nuclear colored sky  

the lost thought within a thought that circles the world 

in the bones of vampire bats and the nursery rhymes of Octopus

whose faces are coded by the television Studio,

 

by Stockbrokers singing Hallelujah Hallelujah to

 

the Corporate Warlords late at night

and the Army of the Marianists

 

 marches into the Convenience Store Void in perfect rhythm

to the dream life of Stalinist Kindergarten Teachers, 

ten million unborn  beings sequestered

 

on the other side of Your Mother's Face

where a Vortice of Time is like the Incarnation 

of Unfathomably Heavenly Insanity, 

a type of delirious wisdom that courses through the centuries

in the winded flesh of all unfinished beings, 

tunnels of light and hurricanes of syntax, 

paper cups and mechanical hearts

 

rising and falling through the nuclei of bloodstained angels

whose darkness nurses the  embryo of

 

Infinite Light at the Edge of the Eyelid where

 

You End.  

***

The Photovoltaic Skin of a Chameleon lost between 2 Mirrors

RATE: 0 Flag 

a single cloud

climbing down the mountaintop,

the way a poet descends into the soil,

graveyards of fantasias

emerging like the teeth of some Titanium Dragon,

every styrofoam cup

a wounded scale that has fallen like the rain

from some imaginary destination

that nobody dreams to arrive,

where the Strange Gods of the Unknown Pantheon

wait like nursery rhymes

at tables full of the dreams of Man,

every word and syllable of every prayer

a fruit that transubstantiates

into the pulsing wisdom of the unknown,

as if the Universe was trying to reassemble

something that may or may not have ever existed,

except for that strange moment on the Catalonian Seashore

where the roadside prophets slipped their paintbrushes

a cask of wine and the ocean rippled like the eyes of a dolphin

cresting on a wave,

the aquarium in the living room of the Leviathan

as an eyeball washes up on some suburban riverside

and it is composed entirely of elements 

not previously thought possible,

but pulsing and tangled,

howling in unfinished visions,

every scintillating electron escaping from it's membranes

the way the Magician Houdini

escaped the Straightjacket of Time,

and is sending postcards through the skin 

of chameleons. 

***

Algorithmic Glissando of Polyhedral Omniscience

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

Coincidental, quintessential sentience 

quells catatonic apathy into a livid snatch of endlessness 

tripping briskly on certain uncertain symbiotic lips,

where the wine is laced with the glossolalia of Ulysses,

a hearse draped in vines on the Island where Circe nurses 

a rhapsody of  rhodopsins, potlatch of photons whose periodicity 

traps the Angels on the other side of that Star with a circumfrence 

 

of Infinity 

until the Storm Gods cascade in bouquets of schismatic cataclysms

the loquacious sentiment of Liars bathed in Perfect fire and 

 

the unquiet life of that wicked modern desire 

to startle the dream from deep within the Television set,

 

to remind the world

 

it is not dreaming,

and nothing save the human face remains,

 

at the edge of the day, where the Mirror and the Woman's Neck

exchange glances as the Gypsy falls into the sleep of human Stupor,

the way the Shamans

 

 hunt the Fairies, laughing ancient paradoxes

 

through the forest made of 

gamma rays that billow in pillows of wild

 

moonlight,  curling pearls into whirlwinds  on the end of a

 

beauty queen's hand me down eyelash.   

*

The clown faced angel has run  gauntlets of 

gossamer glissandos, 

turning combination locks around and around 

in cycles of mathematical anonymity  that explains 

the Kingdom of Heaven in terms that even the Sparrows 

can explain, as spiders and Pharoahs race through the 

 

Convenience Stores, dreaming of Ice Cream and Women

 

who glow in Uranium Madness,  

their eyes like nests of golden costumes,

billowing embers of dusk & rust

 

hunting Godlike elopements down the nursery rhymes made

 

of Existentialist asleep in the sand. 

*

On the edge of the ocean, there was a tribe of

 

paint by number Birds,

Sailors bathed in the breath of God,

waltzing around a moment of immaculate silence

--- at the zenith of night,

 

when the Architect wept a wisp of papier mache 

 

and papyrus, the words that meant nothing 

 

except a Gasp of unfinished prayers, echoing the sound  

of Columbus tip toeing into the  Spanish Sea,

eyes like empty sails, tantrums and doldrums 

of the Stations of the Cross, a Catholic insanity 

that can never be forgotten nor remembered,

but only danced,

 

the choreography of Shamanic apparitions whose bones

gurgle time bombs of wisdom,

 

where the  Amazonian river

is a love song of Jaguars gargling God's Ululations of Lament 

the sound of the mud exchanging vows with the Void,

 

embryos of emptiness that can never be resolved

save by celestial transpositions of 

names that crawl like unborn Gods

 

in the bright squall of an Inhuman Eye  

***

The Curtains of the Theatre are Dreams of Perpetual Motion

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

an Adversary amongst the Composers,

where the cemetery slips golden beaks

around birdlike mouths, every strange note

bursting through chlorophyll into 

a blueness that waits like Miles Davis 

on the other side of the Universe,

the one that Nobody could actually construct 

but only existed in Music,

the language that God invented as if to suggest to 

God

that not even God knew everything, no,

not how the song began,

but that even in the wildest oscillation of the human heartbeat

there were seven billion muses,

their whispers broken into puzzles that would somehow converge

some other day,

in the depths of the emptiness that remains

as one is sweeping the stage empty of words

and the audience is like a parade of apparitions

bathed in the disintegration of the world,

and in the curtains of the theatre 

there is a dream of perpetual motion 

that not even TS Eliot could explain away 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

The Way a Robot Changes the Channel on a Broken Television

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

when, they teach you the tongue twisters

that roll into the room 

like snake eyed shakespeares speaking in tongues

of Bibles building Bibles

out of self assembling Thunder, where the raindrops

are lost in permanent pause,

every gasping refraction of intelligence scintillating 

like the pearly scales of some mad dragon,

and the classroom Suddenly Expands

into a Polyhedron of Elliptical Nirvanas

every chalkboard, the Hieroglyphic glissando,

some assembly required until the moment 

the door bell rings and the voice begins to sound

as if it is only an echo,

as if it is only an echo,

and someone else is speaking the words

someone nobody has ever met, 

the white face of God in the darkroom 

lost in trapezoidal coliseums, where a flock of birds

suddenly changes direction

the way a Robot Changes the Channel 

on a Broken Television. 

***

A Ray of Light, an Acorn, a Strange soil where Stories Begin

RATE: 0 Flag 

A saturnalian harp,

the green eyed grasshopper is marrying a ray of light 

to an acorn,

by the powers granted by some Greek divinity

sleeping in the soil where all stories 

begin, according to the Brother's Grimm,

whose child hood in the Alps

remained unfinished, in the forest where the Apostles

were like strange Angels sleeping 

in the knotted coils of trees 

that could only unfurl 

as the Banquet arrived, the language of Autumn and Spring

like a conversation 

haunted by question after question, the dialogue of the Clouds

with the Anvil,

the Purse with the Lion's heart, the eye of God with the darkness

of God's particular atheism, 

a series of random numbers that happen whether God knows they can happen or not,

as if something happened

that day before they invented Ink

and the Poets were sleeping in bacchanalian entropy 

where the Mountaintop is racing the Valley

on feet made of bird wings

into the fire that sleeps inside everything.

*

At the head of the table there was a LadyBug,

her heart laced with dandelion wine,

turning tarot cards over and over against the silhouette of the moon

whose tongue

dropped red feathers into the white snow,

the ancient myth balancing philosophy of snowflakes

in the geometry that superstitious mathematicians

will one day pretend to explain,

until they step into the rain and realize it is really raining

and nothing remains the same

and the Ladybug has arrived in a brilliant suit 

of alizarin crimson, 

racing through a windowpane on the edge of the street 

as a wine bottle falls to the ground,

and the Universe moves on,

***

In Pursuit of the Vowel the Human Heart Cannot Explain

RATE: 0 Flag 

there is a word for starlight 

the stars themselves cannot explain.

Ten billion years into the Poem,

their being burns against the flow of God's sorrow

like a child escaping the womb 

in a maternity ward full of dragons and stethoscopes,

a trillion madmen waiting 

on the other side of the hospital door,

like an audience composed of Shakespearean gypsies

who have escaped an asylum and now run amok

in pursuit of the Vowel that the human mouth 

cannot contain,

as it slips through the wings of a bird 

whose eyes swallow photons like some Jesuit Priest

on the verge of the Apocalypse, 

where the desert is breaking into a dance 

of the Living Machine, the animated fantasia,

thousands of tarantula messiahs racing down heartbeats 

and cesspools of broken memories,

a green door bursting into cactus 

a red thing tumbling like a tongue

a purple fire that knows everything,

especially the thought that you bury 

under tempests of non local silence,

where the Universe waits like a Geisha 

to explain nothing to nobody,

catlike

delivering whiskers and fiber optic translations

of some mysterious event 

that nobody even realizes is happening 

until the moment they are dead

and buried,

hatching ghosts in some phantasmagorical communion 

with the bright desert Smile,

an eyelid burnt 

by the sound of  it's capillaries rushing against the flow of Time. 

***

In Pursuit of the Vowel the Human Heart Cannot Explain

RATE: 0 Flag 

there is a word for starlight 

the stars themselves cannot explain.

Ten billion years into the Poem,

their being burns against the flow of God's sorrow

like a child escaping the womb 

in a maternity ward full of dragons and stethoscopes,

a trillion madmen waiting 

on the other side of the hospital door,

like an audience composed of Shakespearean gypsies

who have escaped an asylum and now run amok

in pursuit of the Vowel that the human mouth 

cannot contain,

as it slips through the wings of a bird 

whose eyes swallow photons like some Jesuit Priest

on the verge of the Apocalypse, 

where the desert is breaking into a dance 

of the Living Machine, the animated fantasia,

thousands of tarantula messiahs racing down heartbeats 

and cesspools of broken memories,

a green door bursting into cactus 

a red thing tumbling like a tongue

a purple fire that knows everything,

especially the thought that you bury 

under tempests of non local silence,

where the Universe waits like a Geisha 

to explain nothing to nobody,

catlike

delivering whiskers and fiber optic translations

of some mysterious event 

that nobody even realizes is happening 

until the moment they are dead

and buried,

hatching ghosts in some phantasmagorical communion 

with the bright desert Smile,

an eyelid burnt 

by the sound of  it's capillaries rushing against the flow of Time. 

***

One Zero One Zero One Elopes into the Polka Dots of Night

RATE: 0 Flag 

The eyes began to intercept

 

the wisdom of God in a glass of emptiness wine.

 

Drunk. She dissolved like sugar into sadness

 

and determined She 

 

did not even exist.  Not at all, not in any way.

 

The television gave birth to a lizard

 

the lizard gave birth to a cloud

 

the cloud gave birth to an angel

 

who sat on the ground like Ulysses,

 

his face as golden as a box of coins. 

 

 

 A Stupor of Intelligence negated the room

 

with the sudden comprehension

that the potato faced Waitress was right.

There were polka dots balanced

 

like Leopards --- waiting in the clouds, outside the window 

where the rock song began to announce

a babylonian pandemonium

 

of  random numbers

and the life cycle of the archangels,

the tips of their wings brushing against the skin 

in algorithms of coincidence,

and synchronicity,  mysterious events that converge

 

in perpetual simultaneity

and the passage of madness through the straightjacket Lies

leaving Mothers eyes

 

to writhe with the Insanity of Heaven in the maternity ward,

 

revealing the hearse in the candlelight,

 

the exoskeleton of God that shimmers like a styrofoam cup

candelabra and carouselambra

igniting with the phantoms and quiescence

as the ocean disappears on the tongue of God in the twilight,

leaving those gathered on the beach to wonder

where the Waitress has gone,  the hole in her eyes like a Moon full of 

footsteps

 

traipsing off into some blue fever that reminds

the Polka Dots that God is  balanced everywhere, 

unbalanced everywhere,

 

a spacetime event that has an Infinite Probability 

but still does not actually ever happen,

like a Memory of Jaguars

 

juxtaposited nursing their wounds inside a supercomputer 

 

churning one zero one zero one zero rainforest nightmare of Time 

and the Many Worlds Theory sings like a fire

 

of infinite  variables

as the Human Brain burns itself into the Perpetual Sitcom 

 

details at Nine.  

YOUR TAGS: Add

**

Nietzsche and Einstein wander the Sky disguised as Photons

RATE: 0 Flag 

As the street unfurls, a vampire's tongue painted 

in broken glass and Queens of  the Vegetable Symphony,

a whirligig of Van Gogh's black delirium, the fire haunted madman

tripping kaleidoscopic whispers

through the Dead Grow Flowers that grow Flowers of the Dead 

to remind the living that life is not yet alive 

and the Sunlight hides nursery rhymes, feathered heathers 

in it's jewel encrusted Eyes,

Eagles weeping pantomimes of Shadow through the soil

up against the tide of God, the ligaments of hypnosis,

 

deep inside  the Demon Haunted Television set

where the family sits,  gathering Actors like  Baudrillardist Simulacra 

to cheer on the Birth of Tragedy

 

Nietzsche and Einstein, waiting for the next _______ Commercial,

a Sitcom of Sphinx, the coincidence of the human pulse

in perpetual Eclipse

of Consciousness, 

roots of the Oak Tree exploding towards Cygnus

while the Signal of the Infinite Infinite descends in synchronicities

in the Iris of the Eye, Isis and Osiris

everywhere, a thousand Yoko Ono's whose gypsy faced children

 balance teacups on the windowsill 

at the sudden End of Time,

as if to explain to the Gardener 

what the Rain remembered, what the Clouds forgot, what the 

Starlight says when the Ocean Knots 

a rainbow in the furnace of the  Sky 

leaving the Philosophers to contemplate 

the sound of the Supercomputer disintegrating 

Zero by Zero, the number line writhing 

with pretentious algorithms,

no code, no syntax, no blue screen of breath,  

the straightjackets stitched by Red Faced Phantasms

whose wombs are full of Fool's Gold

and the promise of broken promises, 

the Faith that Explains Everything with a paroxysm 

of apocalyptic blinks,

until the streets are painted with empyrean winds

and the Ghost God chatters a Story,

where the Bonfire erupts 

into a Trillion Questions trapped in the Human Eye.

*

As the Poets announce their memory,

the Soldiers escape into the Parade with no Destination,

a million wounds for the Television,

a trillion dollars suspended in the Sky

Sisyphus and Socrates standing on the Athenian street,

where the bodies wait 

like Waiters at some Feast full of Wisdom,

that strange moment that surges through the Neck

and makes the Face Freeze, the sudden awareness of supraconsciousness

that transcends the room

in wild birdlike atmospheres of enchantment 

song into song, the lost fires of an Empire

tripping nuclei into nuclei,

a caterwaul of catastrophic hypnosis,

cheek to cheek,

the Muses balancing eyelids upon eyelids 

at the Top of the Skull

a Vortice of Suspended Animation, the Newspaper a Column of Smoke

that burns on the horizon

until the Night performs deicide in peripheral madness,

the Lost Town

Howling with Businessmen draped in the Last Flags of Dystopian Psychosis,

Vaudeville the New Nirvana, Samsara haunted by Comedians on the verge

of exploding, 

bursting into wild light bulbs that race through the Movie Screen 

until the Baby is born

in a room filled with styrofoam cups,

the memory of Ulysses racing through the past and the future

until the present moment is a blur of delusion and prophecy,

and the Circus knows nothing save the 

Star drunk sky, racing meteors like the punctuation marks of 

God's tear stained suicide note, 

every comma and exclaimation point a synergy of symbols,

the Oak Tree listening, at the end of Time

for the Sound of Light 

rustling in the denouement of the Primeval Void. 

**

Lazarus Waiting Tables in a Nursery Rhyme by the Sea

RATE: 0 Flag 

a tastebud,  exhuming the Sadness of the Blueberry

dreams of Bonnets singing on the riverside,

the white Sun staring from the dream that happens

 

outside of the 

Face of God,

where memory reverses itself in the Bathroom mirror 

 

as one witnesses a Trout,

staring back at one's self,

and the mirror of the optic chasm spirals through the Universe

an audience of apparitions arriving 

like a Forgotten Family made of Seashells

and bioluminescent madmen

hunting angels in the cresting of the ocean wave,

a Delta of Light where  the Sharks have descended, 

disguised as tourists.

*

The tastebud, sensing the song of Sirens 

on the edge of the Ocean Wave, simmers with the

 

song of the Disenchanted Mermaid,

her heart racing with languages 

the way a blind man discovers the edge of the ocean

racing across his feet until the moment 

of startling awareness begins,

the sense of Infinity changing it's mind 

 

in a freckle of the human Skin  

*

In the variable of the hour, a puzzle made of fire;

the flickering embers of the nursery rhyme,

racing from one grain of sand to the other grain of sand,

levery grain of sand,

 

laughing at the Imagination of the Poets,

Blake and Shelly, Poe and Byron, laughing back

as  Lazarus passes by, waiting tables at the 

 

Edge of the Sea.  

***

A Cathedral Bathed in Ones and Zeros

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

A vortice of the Human Smile, waiting a thousand miles

across an empty universe,

like a Top Spinning in the tree tops, where the bottom of the 

sky dissolves like whiskey on a wiseman's tongue,

the daylight rushes 

against the City, crushing strangers into pastel conspiracies

and the denouement of endless apparition.

*

On the spacetime curve, when the audience has derived a Variable

from the falling of the leaf,

against the sidewalk

one hears the murmur of unfinished conversations,

the kind that are repeated in the strangeness of a moment 

when the door is opening 

and the stairwell is churning like a puzzle

made in MC Escher's eyes,

every moment, the clock is clicking rumors 

of the fractaled pulse that pulses in the number line

where nothing is waiting,

like a Cathedral bathed in Ones and Zeroes. 

***

A Chrysanthemum where Time Begins

RATE: 0 Flag 

Voiceless, a chrysanthemum on the verge of speaking, 

discovers the silence of heaven 

when the clouds descend, chariots of fire that have 

no Ezekiel, only the parade of being through some

celestial kingdom without Kings,

all entropy and time, an echo that repeats the 

name of ______ in perfect chants and the rare harmony

of Eyes moving into Eyes toward the beginning of Time,

the way the End of Time

and the Beginning of time sit perched in a tree,

wondering. 

***

A Chrysanthemum where Time Begins

RATE: 0 Flag 

Voiceless, a chrysanthemum on the verge of speaking, 

discovers the silence of heaven 

when the clouds descend, chariots of fire that have 

no Ezekiel, only the parade of being through some

celestial kingdom without Kings,

all entropy and time, an echo that repeats the 

name of ______ in perfect chants and the rare harmony

of Eyes moving into Eyes toward the beginning of Time,

the way the End of Time

and the Beginning of time sit perched in a tree,

wondering. 

***

Lazarus Waiting Tables in a Nursery Rhyme by the Sea

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

a tastebud,  exhuming the Sadness of the Blueberry

dreams of Bonnets singing on the riverside,

the white Sun staring from the dream that happens

 

outside of the 

Face of God,

where memory reverses itself in the Bathroom mirror 

 

as one witnesses a Trout,

staring back at one's self,

and the mirror of the optic chasm spirals through the Universe

an audience of apparitions arriving 

like a Forgotten Family made of Seashells

and bioluminescent madmen

hunting angels in the cresting of the ocean wave,

a Delta of Light where  the Sharks have descended, 

disguised as tourists.

*

The tastebud, sensing the song of Sirens 

on the edge of the Ocean Wave, simmers with the

 

song of the Disenchanted Mermaid,

her heart racing with languages 

the way a blind man discovers the edge of the ocean

racing across his feet until the moment 

of startling awareness begins,

the sense of Infinity changing it's mind 

 

in a freckle of the human Skin  

*

In the variable of the hour, a puzzle made of fire;

the flickering embers of the nursery rhyme,

racing from one grain of sand to the other grain of sand,

levery grain of sand,

 

laughing at the Imagination of the Poets,

Blake and Shelly, Poe and Byron, laughing back

as  Lazarus passes by, waiting tables at the 

 

Edge of the Sea.  

***

A Cathedral Bathed in Ones and Zeros

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

A vortice of the Human Smile, waiting a thousand miles

across an empty universe,

like a Top Spinning in the tree tops, where the bottom of the 

sky dissolves like whiskey on a wiseman's tongue,

the daylight rushes 

against the City, crushing strangers into pastel conspiracies

and the denouement of endless apparition.

*

On the spacetime curve, when the audience has derived a Variable

from the falling of the leaf,

against the sidewalk

one hears the murmur of unfinished conversations,

the kind that are repeated in the strangeness of a moment 

when the door is opening 

and the stairwell is churning like a puzzle

made in MC Escher's eyes,

every moment, the clock is clicking rumors 

of the fractaled pulse that pulses in the number line

where nothing is waiting,

like a Cathedral bathed in Ones and Zeroes. 

***

A Chrysanthemum where Time Begins

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

Voiceless, a chrysanthemum on the verge of speaking, 

discovers the silence of heaven 

when the clouds descend, chariots of fire that have 

no Ezekiel, only the parade of being through some

celestial kingdom without Kings,

all entropy and time, an echo that repeats the 

name of ______ in perfect chants and the rare harmony

of Eyes moving into Eyes toward the beginning of Time,

the way the End of Time

and the Beginning of time sit perched in a tree,

wondering. 

***

Synchronicity arrives like a Transubstantiation of Pulses

RATE: 1 Flag 

A cauldron of heat seeking trapezoids, 

 

wandering like God

 

in the castle of unfinished sentences

as the tongue of the witch 

whose heart 

has burst into parables of Bougainvillea

begins to ignite in bioluminescent phantasms

 

 

the Ancient City is still sleeping

in the womb of the Infinity Faced Lunatic

her heart bursting with the Fruit of

 

Memory,

 

a vine that rushes on dusted wings  of  that choir

whose wisdom breeds currents of Imagination,

 

 

the chemical composition that knows no silence

as long as the City cannot explain

the way the disciples howl

 

bodies like  Saxophones

in the observatory  night when the Unborn Gods

dance in the sky on carouselambras of Time 

and the sidewalk is like a bedsheet billowing with madness

---- a Bird trapped in  Leonardo da Vinci's nightmare,

when the darkness is as rich 

as Styx 

and Plato stands silent

 

the moment before the City of Athens 

lifted into the Stars, heading towards the flood of

 

Andromedan disintegration,  

a trillion crushed flowers like

 

the capillaries of heaven, flooded with Noise

 

and theories of the Deluge 

*

Crescent of crown, on the tip of the unbroken light,

deep inside the nest of  Mesmer and  Neurons,

the human brain is an ecosystem of non linear number lines,

 

echoing with the stochastic 

anarchies of Heaven and hell and the Unearthly 

refrain that the Question cannot contain,

and a  Fool's Wishing Well 

is a  symposium of Mythological Beings

those who have never heard of a Wish 

actually Being answered, 

the silence as rich as a Salamander's skin,

a Shamanic heart

 

draped in the Lycanthropic Wigs of the fairies,

trained to perform acrobatic disintegrations in the 

Dank dungeon of the daredevil air, 

a spiralling fibonacci

 

of  synchronicity transubstantiating 

every new moment 

until the next the coin is dropped 

and the splash in the well 

ignites the Grandmother of Gamma rays on the far Side of Yesterday,

 

where a Fable is balancing 

 

itself in a Fable

 

balancing itself

 

in a Fable of Infinite Regress,

 

and 

***

Transubstantiation of Pulses

RATE: 1 Flag 

A cauldron of heat seeking trapezoids, 

 

wandering like God

 

in the castle of unfinished sentences

as the tongue of the witch 

whose heart 

has burst into parables of Bougainvillea

begins to ignite in bioluminescent phantasms

 

 

the Ancient City is still sleeping

in the womb of the Infinity Faced Lunatic

her heart bursting with the Fruit of

 

Memory,

 

a vine that rushes on dusted wings  of  that choir

whose wisdom breeds currents of Imagination,

 

 

the chemical composition that knows no silence

as long as the City cannot explain

the way the disciples howl

 

bodies like  Saxophones

in the observatory  night when the Unborn Gods

dance in the sky on carouselambras of Time 

and the sidewalk is like a bedsheet billowing with madness

---- a Bird trapped in  Leonardo da Vinci's nightmare,

when the darkness is as rich 

as Styx 

and Plato stands silent

 

the moment before the City of Athens 

lifted into the Stars, heading towards the flood of

 

Andromedan disintegration,  

a trillion crushed flowers like

 

the capillaries of heaven, flooded with Noise

 

and theories of the Deluge 

*

Crescent of crown, on the tip of the unbroken light,

deep inside the nest of  Mesmer and  Neurons,

the human brain is an ecosystem of non linear number lines,

 

echoing with the stochastic 

anarchies of Heaven and hell and the Unearthly 

refrain that the Question cannot contain,

and a  Fool's Wishing Well 

is a  symposium of Mythological Beings

those who have never heard of a Wish 

actually Being answered, 

the silence as rich as a Salamander's skin,

a Shamanic heart

 

draped in the Lycanthropic Wigs of the fairies,

trained to perform acrobatic disintegrations in the 

Dank dungeon of the daredevil air, 

a spiralling fibonacci

 

of  synchronicity transubstantiating 

every new moment 

until the next the coin is dropped 

and the splash in the well 

ignites the Grandmother of Gamma rays on the far Side of Yesterday,

 

where a Fable is balancing 

 

itself in a Fable

 

balancing itself

 

in a Fable of Infinite Regress,

 

and 

***

The Silence at the Edge of the Stage, a Vineyard of Fugues

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

in the casket, they kept the grapes

that blow through the night 

on sails of wild superstitions, every 

sunbeam traced with the Vine

of Life, from the fusion of the Stars

into the Meitosis of Systematic Derangment, 

every white swan and Scarlet Ibis

turning cartwheels through th Vineyard

until the moment the Blue Heart of the Genie

flickered in the Grass,

and the garden burst into perfumed hues of 

perceptual vagaries, every 

dark eye churning in the sweet flesh of the soil,

a thousand Saints waiting at the Gravesite

where nobody was.   That was the day they introduced the 

Gardener to the Parable of the Hexagrams,

a strange being, wandering the Cupped Cusp of Dusk, a prism

of schizoid wizards arriving like the daydreams

of the Drunk, whose eyes are burning with 

memories of the Other Side of the World.

*

A triangulation of the denouement; the absinthe labyrinth 

that slips like a fingerprint against the windowpane of a Monarch's

heart,

moon rocks stolen from Fort Knox, 

the Golden Eyed Buddha turning over in the Birdbath 

laced with Scarabs and Wine. 

*

The moment the last ember of Cake 

fell into the soil, the Priests heart burst into 

a wild reckoning of Uncertainty, the first Magic

that was contained

in the syllogisms of Elementals,

the laughter of the Djinn, a photovoltaic chrysanthemum

containing the sadness

of Sand, where 

the glass beads of Memory become the Eyes of the Stars,

that nobody pretends

to think Conscious, 

at the end of the poem when the Wine and the Vineyard

have exchanged a series of counterpoint fugues

and the music 

sounds like a Greek Philosopher

surrounded by Silence 

at the Edge of the Stage.

***

Bach's Baroque Boomerang: Machine Building Machines

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

indigo, where the door to the Asylum of God

begins to spin 

webs of thought, those  phantasmagoric apostasies,

 

the way a series of Machines builds machines through the Night 

brushing  aluminum against the cloud in perfect descent,

where Matisse keeps sibilant sigil, a

 

glissando of nocturnal intimacies,  until Bach's pulse 

bounces on baroque boomerangs

 

between the Ceiling of the Floor and the 

Open Eyes of Some Unfinished Being whose name

drips the heart 

across the Chasm of the Beginning and end of Time,

 

which is everywhere, a strange brooding blossom of the 

dialogue of Costa Rican Bees

whose wings lift into the light the way candles

 

nurse the wounds of Statues, 

 

as  they are balanced between 

 

competing Voids,  prototypical prototypes of

Pronouns chasing Verbs around Adjectives of Boulevards that 

journey like dragon tongues into bonfires of  the Ocean Tide, 

and the waves crest into hydrogen Minuets

at the moment the Lunacy descends

every photon pooling against unbroken flesh

containing the Mysteries of Quasicrystal Quetzkcoatl 

 

whose belly bears the fiery psychedelia of

 

the Unborn Beings, waiting at the End of Time

 

where the audience has no script  

*

and the star faced Gamblers 

spin roulette wheels across their broken hearts,

 

there is Casino that knows the Three Miracles of Being and Non Being,

She placed her heart 

upon a trampoline of wisdom, every skin cell burning with the 

signature of that Madness

that called us from the mirror image of the Grave

against all Entropy and Knowledge,

into the place where Dawn breaks in non random data,

computational  whirlwinds of that chemical fire,

 

neurotransmitters whirling 

the trillion hues of the Flesh of the

 

Kaleidoscopic Tears of  Madmen,

 

the Illumination of the Heart of God,

 

by the River, and the Jewel of the Fern, 

 

Krsna eloping into the Mandala of Voidlike Mandalas

 

as the newspaper changes the channel

 

and the channel changes the channel

 

and the television is ripe like a jungle containing

 

***

The Paradox of Paradox is a Trampoline of Clouds

RATE: 0 Flag 

an umbrella eyed tramp on the thunder fueled trampoline,

where the rain names the Sun Cab Calloway,

and Chimney sweeps weeping,  kissing the complexities  of Cloud

in the epicenter of an Otherworldly eye --- the rubyait of the tachyon, 

a cataclysmic promenade

whose Adjectives carve 

religions on the fresh Flesh of Crowned Clowns, the 11th Commandment 

reads backwards a Leonardo hunting butterflies in the Village of Billboards,

the Television burning encyclopedias of Madness

into the face of the Snowflake 

*

  

The unbalanced kingdom 

sways scarabs in vertigo of cremations acrobats,

fables of Paradox changing context the way 

an Marlon Brando discovered his face nursing 

the Wounds of God in the unfurling of Sacreligious Apathies,

 the Cathedral of dirt.

*

The fervent admonitions of the masses -- a torpid tongue 

simulated Mystery --- 

the great Unknowable Unknown,

singing War by War, 

unburying the rock, howling caterwauls of virgin demigods 

hunting Seraphim

through every lost word, until the village is bursting with Vegetables

pouncing down mirrors

 in pursuit of a

 slice of broken rainbow, 

a love note fallen from the Suicide's mouth, 

coincidence spinning inviolate violates through the world 

and into the night, electromagnetic archaeons 

taking communion with Gamma Rays in the Temple of the Midnight Sun,

where the Ocean and the Mountain, the Avalanche of Anemone 

balance Phantasms of Schizoid Ichthyologists in the 

transcendental incantations of the Beings that Live

in Hieroglyphics at the Top of the Sky. 

*

In the chemical fury, the heart turns syllables of white light

into bonfires of doubt amongst the Cruciforms 

declinations of the World

rising like smoke in the eyes of the Dragon named God, 

billowing the flesh of ten thousand generations 

until what remains

is a silhouette of Uncreated Beings, apparitions paused in Geometry of Heaven 

 where the Architect collects the Memory of the great 

Anonymous Vishnu that is Neither Vishnu nor Vishnu nor Vishnu that is not Vishnu that Is

*

And in that Temple of Now, 

constructing itself out of the Prayers 

of Random Numbers,

they have sequestered Pythagorean Imbeciles in cages like Pianos,

boiling lamentations of Counterpoint --- the Tiger Queens singing of Blood, 

the wound of  Uncurious negatives ,

The This of That That Which Does Not Ever Exist,

an Alien Alien  chasing the Godhead of the Living Room into the Frontal Cortex

and the Castle of Imperfect Silence, where the Hierophant 

dwells in  Paradox, undisguise and whispering 

the name of the __________, __________. 

*

Euclidean Void, through the Road of it it it itself travels,

brooding a Circus family of Molecules, 

the Ringmaster's Red Rose,

--- an Electron Paused in the Pacific, a teardrop

in the journeywork of the  Troupe, unspecific as 

the undulating God, who won, the lost one

 wandering the skeletal shadow of the Nothingness, 

 Nowhere, like Hell --- they said,  

hurricanes of  Whiskey that led to the birth of an Orchid.

*

On the television, when the human heart begins to die: 

the wisdom of dolphins and the sadness of the dinosaurs 

converges in the sudden awareness of the Crushing of every Instantaneous

prophecy, algorithmic

ghosts, coming unburied in  Sand at the edge of the phosphorescent Sea.

And the God of the Living goes numb 

with the sound of Machines eating Machines, 

until 

*

the Conversation between thieves is an Equation of Rain

haunting King Midas with the Mythology of Sin, 

Supercomputing Shakespeares balancing Petroleum Rainforests 

in the Crystal Ball where the Curandera sits knitting a Jaguars.

The uncounted Angels burn like charcoal, 

their wings like the dark star of Hydrogen 

the Paradisaical Enchantment of polyaromatic Carbons,

 Polka Dots picking cotton in apocalyptic medulla oblongata, 

twelve Nuclear Furies that contain the 13th Book of ________

the Story of the mountain fed ballerina, her heart baked like a casserole 

into a purple prison of imperfect madness,

the Newborn Smile escaping the World

like Godot, 

going to Theatre on the Boulevard of Ancient Synchronicities,

the month of April, sings fractal refrain 

of emeraldine valleys bathing angels in starlit asylums. 

***

The Paradox of Paradox is a Trampoline of Clouds

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

an umbrella eyed tramp on the thunder fueled trampoline,

where the rain names the Sun Cab Calloway,

and Chimney sweeps weeping,  kissing the complexities  of Cloud

in the epicenter of an Otherworldly eye --- the rubyait of the tachyon, 

a cataclysmic promenade

whose Adjectives carve 

religions on the fresh Flesh of Crowned Clowns, the 11th Commandment 

reads backwards a Leonardo hunting butterflies in the Village of Billboards,

the Television burning encyclopedias of Madness

into the face of the Snowflake 

*

  

The unbalanced kingdom 

sways scarabs in vertigo of cremations acrobats,

fables of Paradox changing context the way 

an Marlon Brando discovered his face nursing 

the Wounds of God in the unfurling of Sacreligious Apathies,

 the Cathedral of dirt.

*

The fervent admonitions of the masses -- a torpid tongue 

simulated Mystery --- 

the great Unknowable Unknown,

singing War by War, 

unburying the rock, howling caterwauls of virgin demigods 

hunting Seraphim

through every lost word, until the village is bursting with Vegetables

pouncing down mirrors

 in pursuit of a

 slice of broken rainbow, 

a love note fallen from the Suicide's mouth, 

coincidence spinning inviolate violates through the world 

and into the night, electromagnetic archaeons 

taking communion with Gamma Rays in the Temple of the Midnight Sun,

where the Ocean and the Mountain, the Avalanche of Anemone 

balance Phantasms of Schizoid Ichthyologists in the 

transcendental incantations of the Beings that Live

in Hieroglyphics at the Top of the Sky. 

*

In the chemical fury, the heart turns syllables of white light

into bonfires of doubt amongst the Cruciforms 

declinations of the World

rising like smoke in the eyes of the Dragon named God, 

billowing the flesh of ten thousand generations 

until what remains

is a silhouette of Uncreated Beings, apparitions paused in Geometry of Heaven 

 where the Architect collects the Memory of the great 

Anonymous Vishnu that is Neither Vishnu nor Vishnu nor Vishnu that is not Vishnu that Is

*

And in that Temple of Now, 

constructing itself out of the Prayers 

of Random Numbers,

they have sequestered Pythagorean Imbeciles in cages like Pianos,

boiling lamentations of Counterpoint --- the Tiger Queens singing of Blood, 

the wound of  Uncurious negatives ,

The This of That That Which Does Not Ever Exist,

an Alien Alien  chasing the Godhead of the Living Room into the Frontal Cortex

and the Castle of Imperfect Silence, where the Hierophant 

dwells in  Paradox, undisguise and whispering 

the name of the __________, __________. 

*

Euclidean Void, through the Road of it it it itself travels,

brooding a Circus family of Molecules, 

the Ringmaster's Red Rose,

--- an Electron Paused in the Pacific, a teardrop

in the journeywork of the  Troupe, unspecific as 

the undulating God, who won, the lost one

 wandering the skeletal shadow of the Nothingness, 

 Nowhere, like Hell --- they said,  

hurricanes of  Whiskey that led to the birth of an Orchid.

*

On the television, when the human heart begins to die: 

the wisdom of dolphins and the sadness of the dinosaurs 

converges in the sudden awareness of the Crushing of every Instantaneous

prophecy, algorithmic

ghosts, coming unburied in  Sand at the edge of the phosphorescent Sea.

And the God of the Living goes numb 

with the sound of Machines eating Machines, 

until 

*

the Conversation between thieves is an Equation of Rain

haunting King Midas with the Mythology of Sin, 

Supercomputing Shakespeares balancing Petroleum Rainforests 

in the Crystal Ball where the Curandera sits knitting a Jaguars.

The uncounted Angels burn like charcoal, 

their wings like the dark star of Hydrogen 

the Paradisaical Enchantment of polyaromatic Carbons,

 Polka Dots picking cotton in apocalyptic medulla oblongata, 

twelve Nuclear Furies that contain the 13th Book of ________

the Story of the mountain fed ballerina, her heart baked like a casserole 

into a purple prison of imperfect madness,

the Newborn Smile escaping the World

like Godot, 

going to Theatre on the Boulevard of Ancient Synchronicities,

the month of April, sings fractal refrain 

of emeraldine valleys bathing angels in starlit asylums. 

***

The Music of Violins Asleep in the Womb of the Wood Tree

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

what dream, unfurled in that lightning of Silent perplexity 

set the Stage with shocked Actors, whose Acorn like eyes

grew oak ward, through the Soil weeping photons of Human SKull,

the wild world vacant like the African Night,

when the Starry Grave

is rent asunder and the Ghosts enter the Shade,

hearts like wild lilies

rushing with such strange perfume that not even the living 

may know.

And when that human cheek is draped with lies,

warped by every moment's passing --- the echo of that Voice

will sound 

as a hammer strikes the anvil,

every word --- bursting into embers of some uncontrollable desire,

racing down the flesh

in ribbons of incurable dissolution

as the City nurses it's children 

to sleep, in the land of the Lost Rebellion,

where only the Moon is awake 

and the Flesh curls into wings and prisms,

leaving the Actors alone on the Stage

their Skeletons trapped in a world

they have not made,

mouths full of words 

that not even the darkness cares to hear. 

*

A silence born like a ghost, at the moment the lips

reach terminal velocity, 

where the window is no longer a window, and the sky 

no longer a sky,

but the harpischord of disincarnate beings,

whose names are rhymed with the sound 

of the babbling brook and the smile of Panthers

gathering plums on some unfinished highway,

where Humanity Waits

like Godot,

for Godot to arrive and tell Godot

that not even Godot 

knows where he is Going,

and the Stage door opens like a broken umbrella,

allowing the demigods

to sleep. 

*

On the edge of the glass, there is a drop of Rain

that lingers in harmonic resonance

around the still point containing the eyes 

of ten trillion messiahs, their prayers like the 

blueprints of some Universe

waiting to happen, wallflowers of indelibly exquisite exaltations

dancing slowly with eyes

full of music that only they themselves can hear,

until the building is gone 

and the forest arrives like a million dark Sailing Ships, 

every pine cone whispering the music that was there

before the Violins arrived,

and the voice of the Wolverine and the Evergreen

gave birth to waltzes that called the dead 

down from the Sky 

into a place that had never heard anything 

save the laughter of God 

***

The Music of Violins Asleep in the Womb of the Wood Tree

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

what dream, unfurled in that lightning of Silent perplexity 

set the Stage with shocked Actors, whose Acorn like eyes

grew oak ward, through the Soil weeping photons of Human SKull,

the wild world vacant like the African Night,

when the Starry Grave

is rent asunder and the Ghosts enter the Shade,

hearts like wild lilies

rushing with such strange perfume that not even the living 

may know.

And when that human cheek is draped with lies,

warped by every moment's passing --- the echo of that Voice

will sound 

as a hammer strikes the anvil,

every word --- bursting into embers of some uncontrollable desire,

racing down the flesh

in ribbons of incurable dissolution

as the City nurses it's children 

to sleep, in the land of the Lost Rebellion,

where only the Moon is awake 

and the Flesh curls into wings and prisms,

leaving the Actors alone on the Stage

their Skeletons trapped in a world

they have not made,

mouths full of words 

that not even the darkness cares to hear. 

*

A silence born like a ghost, at the moment the lips

reach terminal velocity, 

where the window is no longer a window, and the sky 

no longer a sky,

but the harpischord of disincarnate beings,

whose names are rhymed with the sound 

of the babbling brook and the smile of Panthers

gathering plums on some unfinished highway,

where Humanity Waits

like Godot,

for Godot to arrive and tell Godot

that not even Godot 

knows where he is Going,

and the Stage door opens like a broken umbrella,

allowing the demigods

to sleep. 

*

On the edge of the glass, there is a drop of Rain

that lingers in harmonic resonance

around the still point containing the eyes 

of ten trillion messiahs, their prayers like the 

blueprints of some Universe

waiting to happen, wallflowers of indelibly exquisite exaltations

dancing slowly with eyes

full of music that only they themselves can hear,

until the building is gone 

and the forest arrives like a million dark Sailing Ships, 

every pine cone whispering the music that was there

before the Violins arrived,

and the voice of the Wolverine and the Evergreen

gave birth to waltzes that called the dead 

down from the Sky 

into a place that had never heard anything 

save the laughter of God 

***

As Triangles Gather Sapphires in the Cemetery of God

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

between ghosts

we oscillate down the promenade of Being

one eye, 

two eye

three eyed

beings paused in calculations of that freakshow

that chased your Grandmother 

through the forest of Broken Trees,

hissing russian symphonies across her skin

as if the sky was the breath of the Great Bear,

Arcturus spinning it's solitary madness

in the night

as the rocks turned green and boiled, leaving her 

footprints like question marks

that one day would strike terror 

into the Brains of the Thief,

just at midnight when the Sun Balances a Chinese Poet

inside an American Television and all that remains

is a broken toy

laughing the way

broken toys must laugh 

when the living room is empty and Christmas is ten thousand years away

and nobody hears anything 

except the world spinning on it's axis

and that sound

makes you numb and deaf, the way every Buddha must be

when singing the song of the Infinitely Infinite Infinity

and nobody, 

not even the Buddha next door

disagrees, and the room and the Cage and the Stars

and the Face of God that sleeps in the Bathroom Mirror

until someone Accidentally Wakes It

and the Universe bursts into the darkness

of Life

that is the same darkness of the day 

before the  Triangles gathered Rubies

 

in the Cemetery of God

 

which is everywhere and nowhere always  

***

Baskets of Starlight fall into the Freckled Eyelids of God

RATE: 0 Flag 

the tragic holiness of those broken eyes

wanton, lost between the Television Sets

that day in Las Vegas, when the Blue World 

appeared in a burst of strange light, 

when the Dealers heart chimed like a Bell

and the numbers ran against the flow of Entropy

until all that was left 

was an empty room, a woman with eyes like bee stings,

rehearsing the Dawn

as if Yesterday had never happened 

and the Casino was a Castle of Vacuous Madness,

the Insanity of Car Thieves and Excommunicated Nuns

whose language remains blurry, 

even after the Night is solemn and the candelabra is training the stars

how to slip through the skin 

of the dreamer.

*

After the Delusional Deluge,

in the desert: they began building Spaceships,

the Vagabonds laughing at the W****s,

the W****s weeping for their Fathers,

the Ancient Kings trapped in the Pyrrhite

listening to the sound of Bedouin Nomads

wandering across the desert, praying for a Beer,

their footsteps as quick

as the Smile of a Giraffe, 

in the Zoo at midnight when the Moon arrives,

and the Desert bursts into Vegetable Tears,

the Bright Jewels of Dragonfly 

the undulating ribbons of the rattlesnake 

that circulate like rumors

of God's sanity,

when the Roulette Wheel is spinning 

and just for a moment,

it seems like some Great Anonymous Being 

is listening to your heart pulse

as if it was a Water Lily 

trapped in the furnace

*

At the moment of perfect convergence, 

the human eye is no longer an eye

but a Courtyard of Coincidence

where the Saints are waiting like playing cards

for someone to realize they have meaning,

even under the Shadow of the Neon Lights,

where the Queen of the Tarot 

sits like an Orphan, her eyes as fast as bullets

fired by God

***

Synchronicity arrives like a Transubstantiation of Pulses

RATE: 1 Flag

Email

A cauldron of heat seeking trapezoids, 

 

wandering like God

 

in the castle of unfinished sentences

as the tongue of the witch 

whose heart 

has burst into parables of Bougainvillea

begins to ignite in bioluminescent phantasms

 

 

the Ancient City is still sleeping

in the womb of the Infinity Faced Lunatic

her heart bursting with the Fruit of

 

Memory,

 

a vine that rushes on dusted wings  of  that choir

whose wisdom breeds currents of Imagination,

 

 

the chemical composition that knows no silence

as long as the City cannot explain

the way the disciples howl

 

bodies like  Saxophones

in the observatory  night when the Unborn Gods

dance in the sky on carouselambras of Time 

and the sidewalk is like a bedsheet billowing with madness

---- a Bird trapped in  Leonardo da Vinci's nightmare,

when the darkness is as rich 

as Styx 

and Plato stands silent

 

the moment before the City of Athens 

lifted into the Stars, heading towards the flood of

 

Andromedan disintegration,  

a trillion crushed flowers like

 

the capillaries of heaven, flooded with Noise

 

and theories of the Deluge 

*

Crescent of crown, on the tip of the unbroken light,

deep inside the nest of  Mesmer and  Neurons,

the human brain is an ecosystem of non linear number lines,

 

echoing with the stochastic 

anarchies of Heaven and hell and the Unearthly 

refrain that the Question cannot contain,

and a  Fool's Wishing Well 

is a  symposium of Mythological Beings

those who have never heard of a Wish 

actually Being answered, 

the silence as rich as a Salamander's skin,

a Shamanic heart

 

draped in the Lycanthropic Wigs of the fairies,

trained to perform acrobatic disintegrations in the 

Dank dungeon of the daredevil air, 

a spiralling fibonacci

 

of  synchronicity transubstantiating 

every new moment 

until the next the coin is dropped 

and the splash in the well 

ignites the Grandmother of Gamma rays on the far Side of Yesterday,

 

where a Fable is balancing 

 

itself in a Fable

 

balancing itself

 

in a Fable of Infinite Regress,

 

and 

 

***

Baskets of Starlight fall into the Freckled Eyelids of God

RATE: 0 Flag 

the tragic holiness of those broken eyes

wanton, lost between the Television Sets

that day in Las Vegas, when the Blue World 

appeared in a burst of strange light, 

when the Dealers heart chimed like a Bell

and the numbers ran against the flow of Entropy

until all that was left 

was an empty room, a woman with eyes like bee stings,

rehearsing the Dawn

as if Yesterday had never happened 

and the Casino was a Castle of Vacuous Madness,

the Insanity of Car Thieves and Excommunicated Nuns

whose language remains blurry, 

even after the Night is solemn and the candelabra is training the stars

how to slip through the skin 

of the dreamer.

*

After the Delusional Deluge,

in the desert: they began building Spaceships,

the Vagabonds laughing at the W****s,

the W****s weeping for their Fathers,

the Ancient Kings trapped in the Pyrrhite

listening to the sound of Bedouin Nomads

wandering across the desert, praying for a Beer,

their footsteps as quick

as the Smile of a Giraffe, 

in the Zoo at midnight when the Moon arrives,

and the Desert bursts into Vegetable Tears,

the Bright Jewels of Dragonfly 

the undulating ribbons of the rattlesnake 

that circulate like rumors

of God's sanity,

when the Roulette Wheel is spinning 

and just for a moment,

it seems like some Great Anonymous Being 

is listening to your heart pulse

as if it was a Water Lily 

trapped in the furnace

*

At the moment of perfect convergence, 

the human eye is no longer an eye

but a Courtyard of Coincidence

where the Saints are waiting like playing cards

for someone to realize they have meaning,

even under the Shadow of the Neon Lights,

where the Queen of the Tarot 

sits like an Orphan, her eyes as fast as bullets

fired by God

at the Beginning of Time. 

***

Do Blue Bougainvillea Respond to Your Thoughts by Design?

RATE: 0 Flag 

In the dusk of Athens,

there are phantom peasants who roar the Catalogue of G-ds 

Lies

out into the marketplace where the Vegetables

seem like Machines forged in Vulcans Flaming brain

a trillion diamonds that infect the woman's eyes

with some promise of discovering the Secret 

that has never been revealed, a tongue of the Leviathan

unfurling it's shadow

somewhere between the supercomputers 

where the Newspaper is singing a thousand wounds 

per Sitcom.  

*

On the edge of that hysteria, the kind one finds in the bedroom 

mirror:  there is a white line that races

across the forehead, reminding you that you are a Witch,

a warlock, 

discovering Atlantis in your Own Eyes,

an Ocean that has no memory

of it's own Boiling Madness, 

an Ocean that contains something Other than Argonauts,

blue bougainvillea

that respond to your thoughts as if by design,

swaying across the starlight 

like the color of the cheekbones of Mona Lisa

at the moment Leonardo dropped his eyes

against the lost horizon 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

Harlequin Baudelaire, and Simulacra of Chromatic Neutrality

RATE: 0 Flag 

the pantheon of disincarnate beings,

whose newspapers read like Yahweh's tattoo,

curve

around a Totem Pole in AncienT Chicago,

where the Ghost of Belle Star and the Simulacra of Baudelaire, Harlequin

are exchanging Recipes for the Apocalypse,

their faces painted in the summer grass 

by Buddhist Geraniums whose fingertips will not be born

for ten thousand centuries,

as the Machine World crucifies itself in the Fluorescent Night,

the surgery between the convenience stores

an eminence of abandoned catastrophes

c

comparable to the way the Saint lick's the razor

on the edge of the Sea,

Mists and Vapors of the Prophecy that whirl in candelabras

of the dark nautilus spinning in the

eyes of the Shark,

a wind that contains mythologies of Sacred Insanity of God,

the laughter of man,

the horror of the Mind

the dissolution of the centuries

in a cartoon that leaps out of the Television

and begins chanting the Name

outside of the Television

where the People are searching for their Own Face

the way Marlene Dietrich 

glances in the dust of the mirror

in a moment between the Wars of Mankind

and poses a silence 

that her own silence cannot answer 

but remains balanced in uncertainty,

if uncertainty exists at all, in that same 

way that the rainbow whirls

around the sky 

and one spends the hours trying to find the place

where it might appear next,

a chameleonic beauty, the transcendental 

flag of Eternity,

a Roadsign that leads into the Supernova

where there are no newspapers and no bombs

and the language of Mankind sounds less like the clanging of bells

and more like the love songs of undiscovered creation

haunting the earth with electromagnetic parables 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

Verbs in a Vineyard of Vowels

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

in the symphony, a ribbon of ligaments

where the Violins have eloped into the Face 

of a Clown

on the edge of Infinity, where the doors open

against the curl 

of the Void, a wind whispering the name of a Dog

above the perilous chasm 

full of names

and the words that cannot be contained in the skin 

of that unfinished moment,

where everything that should have been said

is spinning in the architecture of dissolution

the dream of the dreamer dissolving 

in a factory of starlight and the disintegration of consciousness

along the Y axis,

where the knots are like flesh winding around a Still Point 

containing nothing but endless Messiahs,

their hearts full of Vowels that spin against the tongue

like Verbs in a Vineyard

***

Neutrons of Dolphin Eyes balanced in a Cruciform of Sunlight

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

ten thousand centuries,

they have discovered glow in the dark lipstick

licking  the wounded dolphin

in a red tide, the eyes of God are like antiparticles

examining the Crucifix that appeared

by accident on the ground

as you were wandering the coast 

thinking of Vampires and the way that 

there is a moment in the Sunset

when everything is perfectly balanced,

and the Ocean is like a 

Gourd of Impossible strangeness,

spinning upside down against the canvas of the Human Tongue,

memories of Sharks and Nightingales

singing in quantum sorcery 

through the flesh where nothing remains save the Nightmare

of some disembodied angel,

her heart like a trampoline full of Ghosts,

every moment inside the starlight 

a promenade of illuminations whose flesh

contains nothing,

but the strange triangles that develop 

when the brownian motion comes to a sudden stop

and the circles and squares arrive,

in a tango of such astonishing geometrical significance

that the birds flock

and begin to think they control the Sun,

and the Sun, Old Sol,

shines on some ancient Boat, above the surface of trout 

eyes

in some lake where your oldest ancestor 

once laughed at the sound of a strange breath

escaping into the Fog. 

***

SEPTEMBER 26, 2012 7:28AM

The Many Worlds

RATE: 0 Flag 

….pulsing at 10^-43 

in this cathedral of flesh, 

a thirty milliseconds’ Multiverse

of N-degree dream energies

recombining a priori

in a Labyrinth of Light;

a kaleidoscopic subatomic

holographic apocrypha

that evolves in non linear 

infinite instantaneous simultaneity,

And sets the stage 

with variable variables, 

a crossroads of chromosomes, 

of face and space, 

of point and wave. 

Center now 

the nova koan, 

a cyclic idyll 

singing singularity, 

off and on, 

past and future, 

a vast

paradox resolving 

in a newborn eye where 

parallel lines always meet: 

As the infrared eyes of Ground Zero peer down 

junkie bomb highway, into a boulevard of braille built

by heat seeking peasants, a hexagon of insomniac Avenues

laced with intestinal alleyways 

exhales formaldehyde in a demonic Samadhi.

A ghost gamma panorama of the post modern

burnt out break down of honeyhived billboard Bedlam, 

a starry explosion of billion dollar doomsday domes, 

dotting the breast of the made-in-Hong Kong-mystery-mountains, 

as a lightning fast flashback of Instant replay X-rays 

switches on the Truth Cartoon of an apocalypse at High Noon 

with Frankenstein blindly punching the buttons 

of the pseudo psychotic karmic scream machine. 

The graffiti glitz blitzkrieg of invisible cities ripe

with wild prophetic orphans, ghost tribes whose neon hair blooms

from reptilian hindbrains coiled in dreamborn helix as 

night terrors ride shotgun

underneath a sea of stars cut loose from their moorings.

And the thunder hisses, whirling in whispers of wonder while

helicopters thwap through thresholds of emergent phenomenon;

gargantuan gatherings growling with attention deficit languages scrawled 

across a sky full of miniature black holes that seethe with a paranoid anonymity.

Infinite universes conjured by hallucinating 

pools of radioactive bacteria,

translated by amphibious beings from the tenth dimension,

carving polygonal shadows from the dark mouth of night,

illuminated by auroras of spacelike-timelike faces.

An angel dancing in the circles of a ruby throated

thunder cloud, hovering inside spring’s carnival of rain.

Night birthing an anti particle of crucifix as all

chance and circumstance evolve into one seething uncertainty;

eternity writhing in sinusoidal non attachment,

Tchaikovskys' synthesis, the harlequin of snicker

snack modernity tithed in disposable aluminum automatons

as a green soul bruised in rust and ink, rushes clocks and cruciforms

to the choir stuttering in bloodshot veils; 

a litany of delinquent antichrists, the mausoleum sliced

around an eight ball eyebeam, a chthonic theology

rat a tat tattooed in staccato octagons hovering over styrofoam Golgotha;

God going googleplex in a post modern parade

of lawyers licking lipstick off the sheets of Meat Street without

meaning, just the catatonic utopian zoot suit nudity of paradox,

full of guns and irishmen,

waltzing like dostoyevsky through the paralyzing

acid rain of an epic epiphany of

stainless steel insanity,

poised in perfect unrepentant pain,

a polarized zip code of exit wounds, riddled with the dynastic

nastiness of the daily news, another Megamammatron

whose unmanned mandibles chew

the flesh of lucid dreamers in an ever growing queue;

as the Jinx Sphinx drinks the waters of our deepest dreams,

linking last thoughts to first thunders in an artificial revolution

of imaginary screams as the dice tumble from a Werewolf’s hand

and you secrete the real aggression,

like the King of Easy Street, drinking liquid Jesus in a twilight

of scandalous confessions, of fashion Queens twitching in the

violent cartwheel of dusk, lust and trust broken

by an infant made of rust whose polished skin like sin

shines in a splash of spilled wine, as the ladies in the Television

coo on channel 99,

reflecting every mutant moment of

the ancient wavepoint of prime time: 

and the First impression swells,

whitecapped swathes of sun drunk silver pearls,

frothy eyelashes of an ocean twinkling 

in a disappearing crystal ball where

life's myriad faces effloresce,

inspiring innocence as the angel of the bottomless void 

quenched the thirst of the lilies of the field with time,

the spirit, self organizing tempests of white tapestries of rain,

with quasars of emotion in a carnival mask of coalescent shadows,

mysteries of the two waves where a witch bird from Venus,

splitting the seam with it's beak, 

gave fast pursuit across the ruby oasis for the eggs in your belly,

an incubating underworld, three waves of salvation's mirage on the cave pocked shores

of a fevered Grecian reef of crimson corals growing wildly in the lacunae,

with empathic neon anemone wrapped around a sailors silver skull,

toward the place of the Unreal symbols where even Gilgamesh once trembled 

like a severed ear, while Mars, a heartbeat pulsed in a scarlet aura

of four waves, with knotted sea vines pyramiding in a heliotropic abyss,

chancing the wisdom that love itself is a reversal of the void,

and the helix turning, a serpentine valentine,  

of rivers run against all gravity and time,

and The Triple Faced Queen, once an elfish wish bringer, 

singing of the fifth wave with the red eyed giant in the empty house, 

as messages from the unwritten 

book were written on her endless skin by history's great priestly sadness,

chased down a golden sphere in a glowing forest 

full of iridescent Lucifers

where angler fish and others dwell; in the sixth wave, a glissando of tides crestfallen, wise to the moon lit death 

of Ophelia,

who's tears were falling stars

for the dolphins of the liquid night, her love gone silent in Saturnalia

with her silken purse full of lost iron keys and spiny sea urchins---

and in that moment, a metaphor slipped into the sky of uncountable worlds;

As above, so below, the coelacanth sang, wordless in the white hot foamy static as

sailfish flashed in the seven waves, a Uranian nursery of souls

and the ocean floor married

the mystery moment as quiescent tranquility quelled

the mesmerizing mermaids of the watery zephyrs of dawn,

during the seductions of this delirious passage,

through the phantasmagoric allegory of the eighth wave,

called Atlantis where seahorses rode gallant through cities of

nautilus shell, in the aquatic fable of the Neptunian night

each turquoise flower splashing in subterranean bliss,

a many worlds where Unicorns speak in the language of birds, one night,

in imitation of the Christ, you walked across the water of 

the nine waves and in an underwater cave, prayed for magic; and thousands of heartbeats away a jungle of lungs 

gathered in the many worlds, and your eye gave birth

to a plutonic flock of photons that flew through the freedom of patternlessness;

Visions of one hundred million angels swarming around a maternal womb;

moons where great Saints sit meditating on the swirling histories of man, 

still points where the universe itself invokes the salvation instinct,

perfectly flowered eyes blooming

beyond breath, beyond the death of all sentient beings,

in the many worlds, out beyond the static mass of mountains, 

the prairies, the glistening lilies of the field, 

the yielding nightmarish oceans, the empty soul of the Omni;

it was then, you found yourself in eternal incarnations

standing on a myriad of an infinite number of

washing waves, so alive and unwilling to die, with a ray of light shining

in the many worlds, the many worlds, 

of the One World 

of your eye--- Swirling --- 

in the still life of light --- the stars fell, flying, 

as Cygnus, the Swan, her white wings swinging,

swept whispering wisps whirling in a swish of swooshing sssssssshhh...

Andromeda's illuminated denouement undulated in an onyx ionic

cartwheel of chase, a seraphic phase space of the

darkening covenant of dusk in black lace, 

tracing swift silvery slivers alive in the sky. 

The first and last, we saw you

the silence shifted in our skulls; the dream bones 

by black lit blood unbound,

Cassiopeia curving curlicued in queer colored hues of a symphony of light,

the starry fire flashing, an astral lattice 

of crystal synchrony in flight.

A Capella, one dream conjured ardor rose, a mirrored mirage in a minuet composed

of dancing diamonds, the sky silhouetted in glades of 

tree fingers climbing, 

a chorus of crazy daisy chains of being, a coincidence 

of cadent suns sprung spiraling in unison, 

the secret eye an eye was seeing;  and as summer buzzed with wisened wings

you found lightbeams leaping mote to mote, the wheel a broken spoke

of constellating uncertainty, the eye itself adrift with datum, 

wafting towards

Mare Tranquilatum in the glittering star gardens of the jazz 

of Gemini racing through umbra in the jitterbugging jive of June, an Edenic monism of moonlit monsoons

tending stars beyond all number of stars, our hands cupped like spoons; 

With Luna, herself, a faceless mirror, 

a lily rippling in tear stained glass and chance,

such quiet; you knelt in summer, and like The Fool, you heaven found.

And living in the love-song now, the iris bloomed in a faery crown. 

the wind swept endless Stars unreal; 

the wind swept breathlessness to feel, forever east and west,

the world unwound, Polaris, an unlocked wheel---

Ophiuchus, a wound that would not heal.

the Anonymous Ancient, a star, filled a golden cup with shadow,

and placed it on a wood knot grown green

with the hue of the terranean womb,

the secretive crickets sang !coqui! !coqui!

in the key of haiku,

against a magic maze of zig zag ziggurats whose skull chambers

breathed the Unidentified Flowers of Orpheus,

dropping down in rose and ivory into the art-heart

theatre of the miracle of earth,

you, the first wine in a cup of birth, laughed in ageless language;  

a changeling angel's strangest mirth

tripping on the map of time, out of control,

dilated erratic, a tantrum of memory in a sea of black static. 

as night hung in the filaments of the spider-web sky, wild-eyed Nyx,

where phantoms fly. 

and in the fertile chaos'd wilderness; equilibria, a brilliant kiss

of space and time, the rhyme of mating

in a still point where the dream gyrating,

was juxtaposed and syncopating:

On the spine of Mount Mandelbrot, primeval forces tease and tryst,

in a rising tangle of trees, dreamless amphibians and a trillion

insects collect in rhythms driven by the scent of fire and man--

tiny twelve toed leaf dwellers twisting in a terrible green and gilded

crush of crashing grass and fern and wood-flesh in a 

miracle wound that nurses the nudity of God,  

hissing like a resurrected mamba on a feast of tender leaves and amber

timber chambers brachiating in the liquid green tendrils

of a vaulted pagan sepulchre, sculpted vanishing points of muscled

corpuscles of catastrophic tick tocks of frolicking forest fronds,

the rejuvenated vines climbing through a halleluja of haloes

in perpetual déjà vu, with the ghosts of extinct species grown

thick like dinosaur breath, a faun haunted jungle of 

suspended disbelief and

surreal seizures of biotic ecstasy, as sad faced silverbacks thump

the blood pumps of their magnificent chests, and the bird of paradise

undresses mid flight, startled by the artistry of light on it’s heavenly feathers;

It was perhaps the flame, perhaps the flood, 

perhaps an impulse with no name,

that drove us up from the ocean floor with eyespots, across the sylvan

rifted savannah, and into the trees,  looking always about for 

the face that we had before Time,

into some unwedded wilderness, chasing puzzle and pattern, as if 

the wish bringer, herself, the goddess squatting in the sky,

above a nest of chlorophyll and phylum, had dropped her babies one by one

into some mysterious teeming void;

and the coy chirp of the impish chimpanzee, shuffling in freedoms elfish

self same masquerade, poised curious as if the Universe was no

big surprise,

just dawn yawning in the eyes of an endless Serengeti,  a lion’s giant

growl warping the elephantine skies; and the ancient flag of earth unfurls, ribbons of zebras and the bizarre 

gazebos of bougainvillea, 

gazelles zeroing in on cackling hyena jaws, pyres of rippling

point to point opulence, 

the dazzling wildebeast debilitated by a croc’s bite

in the world weary rawness of the watering hole, where 

mouth and beak break open in unrivalled thirst and fear, 

a single swallow costing the flamingo it’s life. 

and high in the bough, a sloth curls in a swaying arc, as parsecs of 

caped moths are smothered by the Otherworldly lamp of 

sun dogs drifting in the pink Genie sky, 

a place where every mammalian ancestor scries 

the deepest darwinian doubt, as if the mouth was not fanged enough,

the hooves dull and slow, the paw warped by imperfect prowls, 

the beak a fickle unsinging flute, the voodoo of 

the volcano too hot for the lives of the wise; 

And Old animal man, in his own meaningful name, comes tripping 

in tribes--- painted, perfumed, culminations of mummified village gods 

whose refrain is the art of manipulating fire, 

and the dream of flight a waking desire, 

and the ecosystem echoes with human complexity, 

mock wizards drawing the magic ages down in 

mysterious progressions of War, waged in perfect 

repulsion and the noise of lost philosophies 

clashing with the emerald witch of time in climactic 

anarchy of beauty’s wildest prime 

perfected, as the seer’s spirit peers, 

through the eyes of the resurrected, 

in a simple star struck life loving “Why?” 

the mountains hum to die, to die�"

while meaning itself 

lies in silent sylvan nativity.

One atom away, toward the Invisible City,

where spiraling minarets in the moonlit hell shine,

and the night like a liar 

spun fire and spine,

the feathered serpent

fled; lured in delirium through the Elemental Spires,

through Shangri La and Sheol, cloaked in a quicksilver shawl,

crawling snakelike through kingdoms of

wisdom’s desire, to the labyrinth of Theory,

inspired and singing

a rhythmless song, curving in Silence as Time 

feeds the souls of her long dead Lovers; She will live. One atom away,

in the days when Animals speak codes

and the city trembles in it’s slumbering roads

and a comitragic galactic act of auto catalytic nodes,

shocked by mystic stigmata, harmonizes the blood vine of Gaia,

Eternal modalities rise. A molecule of angels breath 

wakes the white whale weeping,

the Old Oak shrugging, a rainbow cooking Thunder,

and the Anointed One anoints the Many

from the fountain of the flaming Flood.

The sacrificial bull lives forever on the Altar; 

it’s nostrils flush in fury and sulfur; 

burning Anti matter cherub, one atom away, 

swirling in the vortex of science;

the spidery iris erupts in kaleidoscopic skin,

webbing ebbing flows in unfrozen flowers.   

Deep in the desert, bones march solemn through dream vacant hours,

beating drums in the darkening dawn 

of heroes maddened by the long 

Shadows risen on the necromancer’s tongue;

the star glows blue as a lily; For nine years, the earth will shake�"

it’s heart grown empty and silent, slaking it’s

thirst on the strange light of the eyes of the dead. 

An Orphan will write the Word

on the skin of an angel and time folds into

series of non linear apparitions; one atom away, 

the dream starved deity agrees. Trees take root in the causal soil;

time runs backward, the oceans boil. 

Magic is unleashed in samsara’s mass. The upraised serpent

pulses a nocturne into Freedom’s lost heart,  a song beyond song

crashing in the Queen’s eggshell ears. The Ground burns; 

a glassy mandala, a talking salamander fixes it’s gaze behind a mask. 

Bitterness; broken songs. The rain weeps, a widow’s tears. 

The madman in his simplicity wakes the Leviathan;

a yellow eye rolls across the bottomless void,

nightshade is all it needs. Under the dream,

a slipstream of Martyrs;  Pisces swallows the moon in a

moveable feast. One atom away, The lovers descend toward heaven, 

so as not to awaken the behemoth.

Retrograde, the flowers fall, one by one into slumber; 

hibernations of love made 

manifest by invisible fingers drumming up dreams.

Exchanging flesh for the liquid fire,

the orchid nests in forgotten symbols;

a tangled iron mouth that bleeds 

in rust and chance, as the harlequin quarrels with a raven.

One atom away, silence erupts like disease; the symphony is brought

to it’s knees by a maestro forged in Vulcan’s black smithy.

Holding white flowers, the Queen manifests in the 

Zodiac. Her crown mirrors the Wheel. A terrible seizure of

tragedy; the alien Hierophant posits salient rage.

Nigh is the night of the philosopher-sage,

made fruitless by vestigial Sin; his ghastly 

image is splayed on the page of Forbidden Arts; 

He rises like Lazarus on the sea foam, tongue 

galloping over each syllable. A triumphant horn sounds across the chasm; 

the serpent is slain; the memory echoes

one atom away;  Sanguine angels languish with Fate; 

the future state of free will falling,

a black and white void pregnant with the embryo of light.

The fall of selfless flesh through the karmic wheel,

the marriage of sweet flesh to steel,

one atom away, destiny radiating, creating the circle of vines.

The languid wine of the silver spine, an emerald Eden one atom away.

The feathered serpent’s undead dance, the ghostly 

trance of the ballet of chance.

Creation ex nihilo; billowing plumes of ammonia and flame,

shocked by brilliant bones full of butterflied eyes.

One atom away the molecules rise, an undisguised Lie 

of lightning and sticks 

tricked into living.  Howling, ancient faces born in the mud have found their mouths full of vowels; blackened like 

the winter sun,

the acid rises from the alchemists flame into 

something we have not yet named. It is there, 

one atom away,  the heresy is waiting

and the trinity is squared, like a crucifix rising on a mountain of embers, 

a flickering pentacle of impressions remembered.

One stumbles from stone to stone,

as the stars transmute a changeling’s skull, and an exorcists hand 

reaches through the ashes. On golden feet, one atom away, the zombie

dances; a carnival of slapstick horror, as the Elemental City  

corrodes in broken laws. Upon the husk of nursery rhymes 

suckling the bloody rebellion at the Gates of Cerebrus, the zombie throws

it’s magic stones, in a requiem for the living word.

And the anti matter cherub permutates through a spectrum of spirit,  

chimeras of fate preordained by free will. 

It is eternity ending, one atom away, on the dust of this roiling shore of bones;

the minotaur in the astronomer’s drama has found

his eyes rolling like dice 

as the aeons lap at the wounds in his breast,

fulfilling each prophesy with promises foreshadowed by

a crystal skull in the vampirical garden,

the voodoo of the starry graveyard, a cathedral 

vibrating with the breath of

the all-suffering God. One, one atom away, amongst the numbered 

stars did surrender to the sacrifice, and walking, 

crossed the schism, fishlike, shapeshifting in an empty tomb, 

dead to the dead.

Casting no stone before the feet of a w***e, 

as if it mattered to matter itself.

On this scale, we balanced uncertain instincts 

with the urgency of a Poet’s dreams. In the shadow and the shade

the myth is our charade,

face and senses grown robotic, as the lotus blooming

in synaptic rapture captures exotic histories in the atoms of a dream. 

And numbers drum up distant thunder; the art of damning 

the world into some impossible equation. 

It is there, the lips break open in a bonfire, 

ancient astronauts strumming strings

howling paean to the perfect rhyme

of the milky spine of light’s final night. 

As Supreme Commander Dolphin Smile descends

through the darkness in a leukocyte of light, 

bearing frankincense and myrrh and the antidote to 

emptiness, a hundred hypnogogic supermen, the amphibious 

math magicians, 

time has stopped and the watch reads 0:00:00, 

the number line is wrapped around the laughing Astronaut's forehead,

a crown of imaginary numbers,and Baby Einstein comes toddling 

in, carrying a model Sailboat.

One atom away, Fabled creatures gathered 

on brooms and magic carpets prepare for the magician 

to paint the Nth dimension with a palette of winds

driven across the chameleon skin

of the great invisibility. A square of blue, trapezium yellow,

the carnival purple, a choir of reds, an ego shaped surface of green.

One atom away geometries erupt; architectures

shifting over serpent mounds lost and found,

tantalizing still frame flora and fauna

hovering on horizons of glittering Elemental Spires, skyscraping smooth lines

risen in the black and white Shibboleth of Time, 

in Shangri La and Sheol,

in Nirvana and Gehenna, spiritual gravities propagating through 

the relativity of the luminous soul, 

featherlike spinning out of control

into denouement of Maya; 

the elusive illusion of an old woman’s

weather worn face erasing

itself as the fish in the pond unwind; 

Farewell to flesh; the Dali clock of skin,

a hyperspace where the chaos 

chases an ecstatic synchronicity 

of the calculi of chrysalis,

universe by universe,

one atom, one atom,

away.

***

The Dance of the Thirteen Constellations

RATE: 0 Flag 

The Shock of springtime

 

bubbling in her unfolded toes. A  candelabra of flames 

spilling it's wisdom into the muddy earth. She dives into the pussywillow pool, 

remembering shyly a beautiful gasp in the chill of a heart 

 

Matchsticks align in her consciousness. A flame erupts inside the 

 

silent sky 

The pond is full of toads and trout that know no boundaries. 

Mouths of strange fish open toward faces not made to be seen. 

Inside the ear of a dream amphibian, the universe shapes itself into lichens and spores.

Mushrooms grow like strange moustaches on men whose eyes are the color of the forest floor.

There, in the emerald jaundice of eternity, a baby girl is sleeping in a crib. She is a thousand years old.

The wizards have named her Salvation. As the earth rolls around on it's axis, her heart begins to beat 

out the names of extinct flamingoes and summery wild architectures of love.

Springtime scrawls a new word on the door of heaven. 

The door to the Universe opens in a strange unquiet symphony of openings. One trillion years elapses in the perfect 

curl of a dopamine and serotonin wave.

Starlight inflames the heat shield face of a time bent series of serpents and seals. The ocean ripples like the 

love bed of the Gods. A dozen roses make love in a clown's heart.

She walks towards the falling tree. The branches are blessed by the names of her ancestors. A funeral erupts 

amongst the acorns and pomengranites.

Life has tricked death into insignificance. The dying God flares his temple out in a grand spiral of escalating 

fury. 

War by war, eternity balances on the flesh of dead children. Iterations of futility seek a name amongst the 

gathered star feathered silences. 

The heart of man explodes in blue nautilus. Eyes leap from cheek to cheek. Weathered sailors persevere through the 

dance of the Thirteen Constellations of Christ.

***

Sonorous Wings Swirling in Illuminated Denouement of Light

RATE: 0 Flag 

The Still Life of Light

and in the Still Life of Light --- the stars fell, flying, 

white winged Cygnus, the song swan

sweeping sonorous wings of whisper-wisps whirling in 

a swirling swish of swooshing sssssssshhh...

Andromeda's illuminated denouement 

undulated in an onyx ionic seraphic phase space 

of the darkening covenant of dusk in black lace, 

tracing swift silvery slivers alive in the sky. 

The first and last, we saw you

the silence shifted in our skulls;

the starry bones by black lit blood unbound,

Cassiopeia curving curlicued in queer 

colored hues of a symphony of light,

heaven's slow fires flashing, 

an astral lattice of crystal synchrony in flight.

A Capella, one dream conjured ardor rose, 

a mirrored mirage in a minuet composed

of dance drunk diamonds, 

the sky silhouetted in glades of tree fingers climbing, 

a chorus of crazy daisy chains of being, 

a coincidence of cadent suns 

sprung spiraling in unison,

the secret eye an eye was seeing; 

and as summer buzzed with wisened wings you found

lightbeams leaping mote to mote,

the wheel spoke less with constellating uncertainty, 

the eye itself adrift with datum, wafting towards

Mare Tranquilatum 

in the glittering star gardens 

of the Gemini jazz jungle jaunting through

umbra in the jitterbugging jive of June, 

an Edenic monism of moonlit monsoons

tending stars beyond all number of stars, 

our hands cupped like spoons; 

full of oceans of light in Aquarian flood; 

the liquefied dalliance of love's thirsty blood, 

spilled from a chalice of antedeluvian wood,

in a heaven of rain waters rising, the young child

surprised by the flight of the Eagle; 

rivers of rainbow run wild; 

into sightless space-time Piscean heights

drained of color, rocking in perpetual rhyme, 

like the open mouth of a fish, 

hooked in black water swishing, 

Venus and Cupid-escaping 

the storm tide of Typhon; 

the union of opposites, 

as Justice flows unbalanced! the black and white stones

in throes of the Libran scales falling;

The order undone before the eye of the Judge,

on a fulcrum of beauty

the cosmos is tilted,

star by star, the verdict is whirling,

for the runaway bull! Taurus charging vital unbound, 

with horns of the crescent moon full, migrating the

field into the deep womb of Spring's maidens, 

hooves racing world over world, the fate of man

placed in the balance of

the wild court of the Nemean Lion, an

endless descent of serendipity sent 

as a shining disc of justice and power; 

the Sphinx of this divine hour, 

roaring the roar of the 

Godhead aflame, triumphant stars shooting forth 

from cold Lunar Kingdom, reflecting 

the illusory Maya with a glance

upon the day amongst men 

found in a night of wild stars,

as cities born in this moment,

from geometries risen through chaos,

a fish tailed cloak trailing 

in the great flood of falling stars,

through the Gate of the Sun,

the simple transformation of hearts, 

a cold silent stillness abundant with motion

perched on a perilous cliff;

inspiration arrives from the

humbled man of the hour

the hunt- arrows fly! a horseman passes

through the center of the eye, with axiom and truth

unceasing, Sagittarius a great pagan of native 

pageantry, shooting through Antares in 

a galactic magic of wisdom learned

at the foot of Chaos; 

down through dawn, the beginning of freedom, 

the blood of Aries poured like the Christ light 

into the heart of the known universe, 

from silent bondage the truth escapes in a shimmer, 

the mightiest of creations; 

the glimmering horn of the trumpet-call, 

as a Secret whispered through the stars of the night,

Scorpius venom sets strange fires alight,

in the place where one bows down,

a double sword of wisdom and destruction,

the pursuit of Orion for the hunt of Gaia;

winter commences as an abstract ballet,

protecting the dead in the transmigration

of souls.

And black eyeless cancer of worlds

drowned in a flood-the house of the moon; 

great misfortune averted by 

a scuttling Scarab 

who knows, perhaps, 

the sleep of the dead, 

swallowing 

pools of silvery Isness 

on Eternity's shore; 

the Winged Virgin, laughing as 

a bright star of unharvested wheat,

in the sky, her robes flow, holding scales and a sword,

the symbolic golden age of the rich soil,

peace from the Queen of the Stars,

she waits;

With Luna, herself, a faceless mirror, 

a lily rippling in tear stained glass and chance,

such quiet; you knelt in summer, 

and like The Fool --- you, heaven found.

And living in the love-song now, 

the iris bloomed in a faery crown. 

the wind swept endless Stars unreal; 

the wind swept breathlessness to feel, 

forever east and west,

north and south, the sky unwound, 

Polaris, an unlocked wheel---

Ophiuchus, a wound that would not heal.

the Anonymous Ancient, a star, 

filled a golden cup with shadow,

and placed it on a wood knot grown green

with the hue of the terranean womb,

the secretive crickets 

sang !coqui! !coqui!

in the key of haiku

against a magic maze of zig zag ziggurats whose skull chambers

breathed the Unidentified Flowers of Orpheus,

dropping down in rose and ivory into the art-heart

theatre of the miracle of earth,

you, the first wine in a cup of birth, laughed in ageless language; 

a changeling angel's strangest mirth

tripping on the map of time, out of control,

dilated erratic, a tantrum of memory in a sea of black static. 

as night hung in the filaments of the spider-web sky, wild-eyed Nyx,

where phantoms fly. 

and in the fertile chaos'd wilderness; 

equilibria, a brilliant kiss

of space and time, the rhyme of mating

in a still point where the dream gyrating,

was juxtaposed and syncopating

***

By the Light of The First Eye that Ever Saw the Sun

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

In this ocean of hours, 

By the coral reef of God's christlike skeleton,

is a blue fish

Exhaling white noise and the green speech 

turning the wise men into Seagulls 

(beak by beak, like the flame of synchronicity spinning in the eyes of the dead) 

While the clouds become a tribe of surrealist angels, 

where, like a clock, 

buried in the coiled serpentine valentine of perfect silence, 

She wakes in the middle of the Madman's prayer. 

Her flesh is a candlestick of color 

Burning like serpent breath in a vision of ultraviolet fog. 

Pouring from his mouth, the Song of Spirit 

carved starlight onto the flesh of her cells, 

floating in the Dead Sea 

on the outskirts of Hell where God cast tarot

in the witch heart of dusk 

And her mouth was a ruby diamond 

dripping blood in the snowy black wilderness of love.

On thirteen glass blown waves, Her eyes leapt like Sailors 

moving through onyx figurines and moonbeams, tracing fractals on a shark's skin.

She was the annihilation of the consensual world.

She was. 

She was.

***

Vowels that Burn like Roman Candles

RATE: 0 Flag 

in language, a swarm of witching birds, 

warp - winged booms of a doomed mood whose Ominous Onomatopaeia 

rots like bluebeard's heart burning in the wild Opium starlight 

of the tavern of Ten Trillionth Heaven, 

through a dark Ululation of neurological anarchy 

each phantasm 

cringing in the alleyway full of vagabond fetuses 

wandering through memories, each 

shriek of the Executioner's geranium demiurge 

costs God his physical presence as Christ goes chasing his Mother's face

into the Kingdom of Heaven 

where Lucifer 

laughs 

like some winged Serpent whose tongue is made

of vowels that burn like Roman nightmares. 

***

 Black Ops Opera, Waltzing Dostoyevsky in Fluorescent Rain

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

Atom 

by 

Atom: 

A Verb of Strangers

gathers in endless Eternity 

and hovers as a quantum cloud 

above an Anonymous City, 

where the electromagnetic eyes 

of Future Histories 

peer down

the Ground Zero Gravity of 

junkie bomb highway 

seeking patterns

creation ex nihilo 

through the spirit-anarchy of 

Infinity's larval boulevard--

as the missile faced peasants decay 

in a malignant mass of 

meaningless monotony 

under Go-Go Golgotha 

laced with esophagus alleys 

exhaling formaldehyde 

in perpetual demonic samadhi. 

disappearing into the

burnt out 

break down 

of wigwam 

billboard 

Bedlam

booming 

in billion 

dollar doomsday domes

Star spangled cities of quark on the made

in Hong Kong Moonbeam Mountains 

as a Gog Magog flashback of 

Instant replay X-Rated X-Rays

turns on the Truth Cartoon of 

the non-linear ninth of noon, 

while deified Draculas swallow

the screams of the pseudo-psychotic

karma machines. 

hekyll and jekyll, 

a graffiti glitz blitzkrieg rises ripe 

with proof poisoned prophetic orphans 

salvation-tribes with neon blue hair sprouting 

from honey hive hindbrains coiled in 

helix until Felix 

the Cat and his night terrors ride

shotgun through the ghost gamma panorama 

of the ultraviolet 

eye-light of 

a serpent eyed drifter 

hissing a rhyme bruised kiss

in the terror born bliss of glitter eyed litter

while black helicopters swish

through thresholds of emergent phenomenon, 

gargantuan growls of attention deficit fiction

amplified in a sky seething with 

a swarm of laughter like black holes 

And new born universes arrive in 

hallucinating rays of luciferian love light, photons 

made real through the wicked liquidity 

of amphibious beings

from the ten dimensions of the Here and Now, 

bearing hybrid power-shadows 

in the dark membrane of night,

a-causal auroras of space-like faces;

bottle lipped water spirits sweeten the afternoon sky 

spilling luxuriant ambrosian valentines 

into the open throat of Spring 

the dark wines and rivers of hot breath, 

flowing through spirit-nodes of bewitching beauty;

chance and circumstance evolve 

in an uncertain, indeterminate dance. 

Eternity writhes in sinusoidal denouement; 

Tchaikovsky's synthesis, 

and the rose eyed nature child pantomimes

empathy with the glee of nature's joy unbound,

haunting an underworld of birth canals 

with deoxyribonucleic automatons

while the corpse wilderness blushes in rust and ink 

on the brink of an unforgettable wink...

through a Googolplex of enchanted binaries, 

the Puppet King licks 

lipstick off the sheets of Meat Street,

zoot suit nudity of post-utopian poetry; 

the optimal delusion 

full of guns and Irishmen,

waltzing dostoyevsky in 

the psychedelic acid rain of an epic epoch

of stainless steel insanity, poised in 

perfect pain and vanity,

a polarized zip code of refurbished 

exit wounds

riddled with the Black-Ops Opera 

of the ancient news - another

mythic schism of

the metamagical 

Truth-Sphinx quivering in a non linear surge of 

a deep carnal dream:

***

The Wedding Cake Explodes in the Priests Heart

RATE: 0 Flag 

The last quiver of her body drove 

the eternal whim of Starlight from her soul. 

Like a clockwork of flickering flocks, 

flowers suckled the dreams of blue eyed honeybees, 

honeybees were converted by death into mockingbird beaks; 

mockingbirds chewed the seed in the grass in cemeteries of cattle; 

cattle became supper in the mouth of man, 

each combination of fleshes a pulse of worldless worlds 

beyond words of the secret combination of the fleshy Madness of the Universe, 

each wound of the Ancient comedy sun burnt by purple comets, 

trickling flames, shadows bloodied with the flooding fertility of the open wounds of 

a Star devil twirling on the Street of the Memory of God, Buddhas bursting

into creation, kamikaze sephiroth kundalini 

as the Void paints the grapes of our rainstorm of flesh? 

and then: 

Light is born inside the bride's incandescent eyes; 

And as the wedding cake explodes in the Priests mouth; 

Osiris rises from the dead. 

***

Dark in the Quark Colored Afterlife, a Soliloquy of Silence

RATE: 0 Flag 

And as the Jewel Throated Bird

interrogates the dream-thirsty Katydid,

---dark in the quark shaped afterworld, 

a tremulous voice gives Wild Birth! 

Alpha cross-pollinates Omega!

In two trees, as tall as an eyelash of the Goddess, 

the butterfly turns blue in a throbbing soliloquy, 

the hummingbird squeals a dissonant pulse, 

each ghoul answers the prayer of the Isolate rose,

as the whisper of She who tricked amphibians to march towards the sun

with the Sorcery verb blooming in her eyes, churns mad butter in the Storm!

Her eyes!!! periwinkle vapors of human flavored rain, 

her enzymes, nursing the flame of the Time-Cherub, 

her Emerald skin, the birth shroud of Witches! 

her Soul, the Queen of Queens, 

Eve in dreamy Exile. 

And whisper by whisper, the name of God sang Aeon to Aeon 

thrusting Greek Sun Gods, Horus and Set,

into billows of 

an infinite regress of the Night and the Day, 

twin spines locked in meaning. 

only then; 

only then; 

then; aeons, moments, aeons, decades, aeons, seconds, aeons, now: 

did the Universe 

Sing itself awake,

pulsing in antigravity from out of the death of the Void 

into the open eye of 

a feathered serpent with starry skin

raised high on the mountain of Eternity 

where the man-machines made last summit, 

and the Underworld, Vulcan, his fist like a hammer,

began thundering molecules, romancing the nightmare, 

a rendezvous with Isis, her heresy brooding in occultic vermouth 

memory!

as Christ washed the infinitesimal moons to a fiery rebirth, 

his Mother kissing love into the open mouth of Earth, a trillion trillion wombs, 

blooming with children whose lives, dwelt like strangers in the Chapel of Peril, 

and fancied themselves angels of Avalon, 

waltzing into the hunger struck Sky 

only to die like Pharaohs. 

Mistress of Fools, I am Luna

who swallowed the leviathan’s orbital swell, and I am lantern to the soul 

of mad symbolic signals

of the Aeons ascending toward the 

Opposite of the Opposites; 

itself a wheel within an electromagnetic wheel.

And I will speak, 

Until then; the mouth of the Guillotined Queen exhales the Winter--

her lips pressed in the Ouroboros of a space-time curve

onto the exoskeleton of some formidable becoming, 

skeleton machine eating skeleton machine

in the last ballet, 

the death of the last electron, 

expressed in the Saturnalian flesh of the snowflake,

lightbeams tangled in perfect fractals, 

that occultic memory of the end of time becoming the beginning 

Thus, as Aeons urged, this, the war of Yahweh and Lucifer, 

Eve and Lilith, 

like those parallel lines that never meet, they writhed

as lovers hung in shades of death 

along the seashore 

where the most paranoid of lovers curl into one 

another's Souls

and swarm in sensuality through the flooding fire of flesh thirsty flames of an

electromagnetic symphony of sunlight churning in each other's holy pulse;

each quarter note, half note, triplet, a delicate rage of blood and tears

for the daughters of Mnemosyne, whose hearts are Museums of arcane 

knowledge lost in the growing hurricane of fear, 

twirling the world atom by atom into incandescent Oceans

that grow into the lunatics heart, 

dripping with the fruit of the Dream of the Abyss,

the delicate bones and unblinking eyes playing

in infernal harmony, 

An underworld of Unknown Urges, 

tastebuds of a black tongue roiling in bursts of purple 

ecstasy,

the eye of the Seer!

as the lunatic sinks below the surface of his own skin, 

eels like rhododendron

rotating in synchronicity to the 

mouth shadows of Sharks

seductive corals blooming through sapphire lacunae,

ruby lips of dying Nereids

swirling whales into endless lost songs

freeing ghosts of Eden to coil in 

deep soundless refrains of catechisms of the sunlight 

piercing buddha’s blue belly, in perfect serenity 

where glow 

unceasing Urchins, Hanging deep in the abandoned 

Asylum, under whirling worlds of angelic whirrings, 

She kissed the lunatics softly, sucking laughter from the Sailor’s mouth,

the flight of Icarus, the birth of Tragedy, 

spidery moonspun fingers churning in the candlelight, 

twirling unforgotten blooms of hair and dream, 

into strangling tangled memory anemone, 

desperation of his vast blue green fingers rocking 

the rock that is never dead, and always born,

a luminescent cruciform, needing love like water, 

the imaginary numbers falling like a secret name

onto the Cubist death scene of the Night of the grand hallucination,

rivulets of thundering uvula, ululating on her scarlet heart

as the soldier rides

on the horse of a shade, and the jewel throated bird

sings again. 

***

The Metagalactic Abyss

RATE: 0 Flag 

And the first impression swells,

whitecapped swathes of sun drunk silver pearls,

frothy eyelash oceans twinkling 

in a disappearing crystal ball where

life's myriad faces effloresce,

inspiring innocence as the angel of the bottomless void 

quenched the thirst of the lilies of the field with time

and Spirit, self organizing tempests of white tapestries of rain

with quasars of emotion in a carnival mask of coalescent shadows,

mysteries of the two waves where a Venusian seabird

splitting the seam of sleep with it's beak, 

gave fast pursuit across the sapphire oasis for the eggs in your belly,

an incubating underworld, three waves of salvation's mirage on the cave pocked shores

of a fevered Grecian reef of crimson corals growing wildly in the lacunae,

with empathic neon anemone wrapped around a sailors silver skull,

toward the place of the Unreal symbols where even Gilgamesh once quivered 

like a severed ear, while Mars, a heartbeat pulsed in a scarlet aura

of four waves, with knotted sea vines pyramiding in a metagalactic abyss,

chancing the notion that love itself is a reversal of the void,

and the helix turning, a serpentine valentine, of rivers run against all gravity and time,

and The Triple Faced Queen, twice an elfish wish bringer, singing backwards of 

Jupiter in the fifth house as phantom languages from the unwritten 

book were drawn on her endless skin by history's great priestly sadness,

chased down a golden sphere in a glowing forest full of iridescent Lucifers

where angler fish and others dwell; in the sixth wave, a glissando of tides

crestfallen, wise to the moon lit death of Ophelia

who's tears were falling stars, adagio, 

for the dolphins of the liquid night, her love gone silent in Saturnalia

with her silken purse full of lost iron keys and spiny sea urchins---

and in that moment, a metaphor slipped into the sky of uncountable worlds;

As above, so below, the coelacanth sang, wordless in the white hot foamy static as

sailfish flashed skyward in the seven waves, a Uranian nursery of souls

and the ocean floor married

the mystery moment as quiescent tranquility quelled

the mesmerizing mermaids of the watery zephyrs of dawn,

during the seductions of this delirious passage,

through the phantasmagoric allegory of the eighth wave,

called Atlantis where seahorses rode gallant through cities of

nautilus shell, in the aquatic fable of the Neptunian night

each turquoise flower splashing in subterranean bliss,

a many worlds where Unicorns speak in the language of birds, one night,

in imitation of the Christ, you walked across the waters of the ninth wave and in 

an underwater cave, prayed for magic; and thousands of heartbeats away

a sea jungle of lungs gathered in the many worlds, and your eye gave birth

to a flock of star flung neurons that flew dreaming 

into plutonic orchestrations

of visions of one hundred million angels swarming around a maternal womb;

moons where great Saints sit meditating on the swirling histories of man, 

still points where the universe itself invokes the salvation instinct,

perfectly flowered eyes blooming

beyond breath, beyond the death of all sentient beings,

in the many worlds, out beyond the static mass of mountains, 

the prairies, the glistening lilies of the field, 

the yielding nightmarish oceans, the empty soul of the Omni;

it was then, you found yourself in eternal incarnations

standing on the washing waves, 

so alive and unwilling to die, 

with a ray of light shining

in the many worlds, 

the many worlds,

of the One World 

of your eye. 

***

The Avalanche Does Not Remember the Andromedan Apricots

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

A crocodile is like an unfinished  puzzle,

in the maternity ward where the King is 

raising the dead 

with a prayer  Composed of Ineffable Coincidence,

and  the Skulls are controlled

by the Sun,

a remote control whose functions

are undefined,

unbelieved, a strange pulsing on the Vernal Equinox

when every photon remembers

some tapestry 

contained inside it's meaninglessly meaningless 

architecture,

the fools gold of those who find Shangri La

in a Teacup full of Broken Glass

and the Wisdom of the Travellers.

*

On the distant shore, there was a sad faced Monk.

Her heart beat one time per century, until the moment 

the Snow Leopard pounced upon a branch of the apricot tree

and the mountaintop screamed

like an avalanche that could not remember it's own name.

One by one the spiralling phantasms, the polka dots 

of creation,

the snowflakes raced against entropy into the Summit of Still Points, 

where the moonlight was rich with the undiscovered memories,

waiting.

In the pulsing wisdom, the fury of the Aeon

distilled the nuclei of the Monk

through chasms of Constant Illumination.

The Snow leopard grew silent as the City began to arrive.

*

One dream later, there was an embryo of the Many Worlds,

kindled in the Night as if it was a Nest of Geometrical

Incantations,

where Pythagoras and Miles Davis

could rest amongst the Evergreens and remember nothing,

but the way the piano strings resemble

a network of beings that live outside of human comprehension,

waiting and hiding

for some Columbus to land in the Convergence

at the appropriate moment in Space and Time.

*

THe evergreen trees are lit with curious embers,

sapphire crowns and undulating archaeons

whose owlish rushing reminds the world of Men:

there is Something Else.

Unknown.  A presence that is stranger, faster, always undefined,

everywhere.

*

The mountaintop began to yawn. Goblets of Hunger and rain,

the ancient thirst of the Ocean.

***

Ernest Hemingway Sky Dives into the Mosh Pit of Atlantis

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

As the bones of the canary escaped

the prison of the real world,

a broken heart came unbalanced,

like the light of the adamantine eyes 

of that unfinished being whose being 

arrives in spirals and minuets,

mozart faced ballerinas dripping blue phosphor 

into the night that hangs

in the curtains of the stage,

a nest of Actors sleeping down center 

where the hands of the audience clap 

like wings,

broken wings of some dinosaur that has discovered it's mother

waiting on the Moon 

of Jupiter, her throat a purple poem,

of stormcloud and syntax that cannot remain

contained

but races through the Solar System as if had been programmed

by the God of Elusive Concepts,

ten thousand aboriginal manifestations 

that bake themselves into cake like twirls

of those ten megaton neurons 

constructed by the Self Assembling Love Songs of the Universe

that Will Never Exist.

*

On the street, the sudden paradox is an Infinite 

solipsism, every archangel suddenly suspended 

like Manet, in a swan dive of perpetual motion, at the tops of the 

skyscrapers

where the feet of newborn babies are pointing themselves

into the Starlight,

toes

like arrows

that one day will arrive on the other side of the Universe

in the exact same spot 

as they were before they were born. 

*

The language of the light is like a vegetable syntax,

the love poems of artichokes

and the neutral kingdom that cannot remain

on either side of the Living Brain,

but spins into the Beginning of Time

like Einstein's hair

being sold at a Flea Market in Kansas,

as if by accident,

or some grand conspiracy hatched in a book 

by Dr. Seuss, who is 

never what anyone pretends him to think he was.

*

On the edge of that sundial, there was a triumphant elephant

bellowing like the Ghost of Ernest Hemingway,

his brain exploding with the laughter of the dead 

and the unborn, unknowable synergies of those who 

have lived without living,

every elemental chain of events that knows no rhyme

or reason,

but simply the randomnicity of atoms

smashing themselves in some congregation of Madmen,

where the mosh pit is like the edge of Atlantis. 

***

Heliotropic Light Bulbs Waltzing into Moonlight Nadir

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

heliotropic light bulbs,

waltzing across the Moonlight Nadir,

two loons howling owlish catechisms

against the drooping loom of nude thunders,

a churning rush of crushed somnambulence,

every acrobat unbalanced in the traipse

of catatonic hypnotisists draping their 

flesh on firesticks and saxophones of Lion Hearts,

the majesty of the atomic zoo

unleashing endless mysteries against the 

flood of bloodlit pathogens,

the flesh of the ringmaster exploding like a gypsy

tongue,

into a candelabra of coincidence. 

*

In fantasias of insanity, the antedeluvian Christ 

barked against silent palette of 

an unpainted night, when the Wine and Bismuth,

Mercury and Mandrake trembled in rivulets of undiscovered 

alchemies,

like the fingerprints of the Green Witch 

bursting on the heated embers of an Apple,

until the Rain began to fall

just at the Moment 

Methuselah Laughed.

*

There was a rainbow in the clouds, threaded like the wing 

of a disappearing dragon

that knew no song, but the sanctity of the burning wisdom 

of the Wing,

the flesh that is flooded with significance,

the lost art 

of the lost art 

that is the lost art 

of a lost art that is not lost at all,

but remains

undiscovered, even when discovered. 

*

In the memory of the Fossils, there is a Cadillac of White Noise,

a strange carriage of bone and sinew

that glows like the purse strings of that Green Woman 

whose feet clutch the earth

in shadowy dances, until every tapping madness 

bursts into Chinese phantasmagoria

that only Lao Tzu can forget,

the Taoist Clarity, 

an endless beginning, again

of something that both does and does not happen,

at that moment the mountaintop 

is green, emerald, like a dragon's spine

in the curlicued ferns that pass against the sky 

in circles of the unfinished Heaven. 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

An Anonymous Omniscience of the Angels that are only Hawks

RATE: 0 Flag 

Sea urchins open like Buddhist eyelids,

on the bottom of the ocean where the 

machines of God are calculating the opposite of Pi.

*

A strange ship, carved of whale bone and tambourines

is racing toward the Scylla and Charibdes,

it's passengers draped like ghosts 

across the sunlit timber, their eyes swallowing the universe

one miracle per aeon,

turning the unfinished God over in the calculus of paradox,

ten trillion emanations

of the Sephiroth running amok, like children of scintilla

on the surface of the Smile,

where the human dream begins to turn, 

an anvil of consciousness, the opening sequence of Time,

despite the Theories of the Leviathan.

*

At the end of the road, the sand begins.  There is a moment of decision,

like a fish poised at the top of an aquarium,

where it seems as if the entire universe is wondering "What If"?

and the knick knacks stand quiet, sentinels

to some unfinished world, a Theatre 

of Endless Endings and Unfinished Beginnings.

*

On the crest of the Indeterminate World,

the Many worlds of God's Irreverent Transmutations,

where the Beards grow like women's eyelashes

and the Eyes are Cups

containing the riddles of seagulls,

the skin is a knot of synchronicity,

every ligament charged with the Energies 

of some Billion Dollar furnace, 

a clockwork of apocalyptic cognition.

*

She lifted her eyes into the arch of the purple twilight 

revealing twelve memories 

like the footsteps of the Astronauts, or the Apostles,

a dalliance of darkening intimacy that grew

sudden into the sullen strangeness of the emptying of the sun,

on the verge of the Horizon,

where the Hawks were resting 

like Angels who knew 

they were Only Hawks,

nothing else, hovering in the wind 

as if it was the laughter of the First God,

an anonymity richer than the anonymity 

 

of Omniscience.  

***

Nijinsky Wakes in Red Square full of Gypsy Ventriloquists

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

The eigenstate of Freedom. NO.

This is not permitted. No.

We must control You.  

*

They have chased Franz Kafka from the mausoleum,

where the Sundial is made of Whale Fins.

Jonah, in the belly of God, has discovered he is inedible,

but still full of words.

*

There was a moment when the Circus arrived in town,

at 3 O'Clock in the morning.  The performers, versed in the 

mathematics of Gypsies, stepped out of their cars

and began assembling Knots and Cages,

high wires around the city that was sleeping, every dream focused

on the Point of Convergences,

as yet undiscovered.  But the Gypsies tripped like the Ballerino Nijinksky

around the edge of the Real World

until the Circus was set like a Ghostly Umbrella

waiting for the Sun to arrive,

holding off the Spectre of Boredom

like Ulysses standing in the Bathroom Mirror,

as the world outside breaks into a million pieces 

and the ghastly scent of Narcissus 

bathes the world with exotic rumors.  And the Circus begins,

at the exact moment 

the Sun arrives, tip toeing like a Scarab

across the horizon, tending every garden with bioluminescent 

insanity,

the kind the Gypsies drink 

on their Way from Here to There, 

the ancient Fuel.

*

As the eigenstate of this brownian motion converged in the puzzles

of Hierophants and Magi,

the Magical Essence of the Essenes,

the Manichean Madness, the Whisper of the Riddling Fire 

erupted down 

the spine,

opening the Night into a Mandala of Salvation.

*

The fire eating lion, the Elephantine Castle, the Tigress whose face

is made of Burnt Roses.

A Clown who once met God.  The Acrobats whose hearts are barbed wire prisons.

*

The light began to whirl, fantasies of the Bioluminescent Ventriloquist

catching itself on the leaf blanketed floor,

every blade of grass exalted beyond the space of it's own being,

spelling circuits of systematic mystery 

into the silence,

until Ballerino Nijinsky fell asleep, in Red Square,

the vast Russian Sky opening like a Box within Boxes,

emptiness itself containing an emptiness itself 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

In the Theater, there are Eyes like the Gold of Pandoras Box

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

 

Uma wraps her finger around the skeleton of God,

where a factory is assembling 

Candy Bars.  The village grows sleepy, like an Italian Sonnet

lost inside a Library,

somewhere south of Dallas, where the footballs are like 

cow chips,

resting in the field at midnight under flourescent light 

and the smell of coca cola,

raw hamburger meat racing around the alleyways

until the Vagabonds cannot think straight,

and the highway seems like the High Road to Hollywood,

ten million Clint Eastwoods

Ten million John Lennons

Ten Million Marilyn Monroes

but No You. 

There is a savage portrait erupting in the skies that howl

with ladybugs and lipstick. 

The lost art of the Crucified Mime.

The Judas Ventriloquist.

Twelve Angry Men burning their love poetry in the middle of grand Central Station

until the Goddess of Billionaires 

arrives with s street sweeper, 

sending them scurrying back to their homes in the suburbs,

fattened with the sound of their own fear 

turning the flesh of the Universe inside out until nothing remains

save the Vision of St. Augustine,

a palace that can never be entered or exited 

except perhaps during the Intermission

when the Theatre is full of those eyes, the Gold from Pandoras Box. 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

n the Theater, there are Eyes like the Gold of Pandoras Box

RATE: 0 Flag 

 

Uma wraps her finger around the skeleton of God,

where a factory is assembling 

Candy Bars.  The village grows sleepy, like an Italian Sonnet

lost inside a Library,

somewhere south of Dallas, where the footballs are like 

cow chips,

resting in the field at midnight under flourescent light 

and the smell of coca cola,

raw hamburger meat racing around the alleyways

until the Vagabonds cannot think straight,

and the highway seems like the High Road to Hollywood,

ten million Clint Eastwoods

Ten million John Lennons

Ten Million Marilyn Monroes

but No You. 

There is a savage portrait erupting in the skies that howl

with ladybugs and lipstick. 

The lost art of the Crucified Mime.

The Judas Ventriloquist.

Twelve Angry Men burning their love poetry in the middle of grand Central Station

until the Goddess of Billionaires 

arrives with s street sweeper, 

sending them scurrying back to their homes in the suburbs,

fattened with the sound of their own fear 

turning the flesh of the Universe inside out until nothing remains

save the Vision of St. Augustine,

a palace that can never be entered or exited 

except perhaps during the Intermission

when the Theatre is full of those eyes, the Gold from Pandoras Box. 

***

Irreverent as Salvador Dali's Tulip Stained Mouth During WW3

RATE: 0 Flag 

tremuluous manifesto.  Writing that howls down the telephone poles,

scurrying out at 3:00 am, when Sylvia Plath is nursing a raven

with ghosts that sleep in her n*****s, and the city is full of green lights

that cannot stop blinking.  Golems of danger. Toxic fantasies

burped from the windowsills of disenchanted beings, every cemetery containing 

plumes of poisoned mist, the nightmares circulating around the Newspaper building

like a catalogue of Subatomic Particles.  Someone screams,

you cannot divide by Zero.  The show begins, in an alleyway where the 

Mailmen are drunk like Socrates, Icarus is stitching his wounds catgut

until the sound of the piano 

makes the Universe seem suddenly hollow.  The architect rolls over in it's sleep,

a hermaphroditic batwing 

whirls from roof to roof, until at the last moment of three am, the thunder begins

to rumble and nobody notices.

The magic of the Still point, Motion of the Mandala.  Optical Illusions

that contain entire Universes coded in every single photon, or pixel, or polka dot,

regardless of what Nostradamus 

said, that night in the Parisian Graveyard, where his pipe smoke curled into 

a fractal that could not be deciphered, the indescribable fury of his Grandmother

escaping from his lungs and drifting out into the Night Until there was nothing left 

but those Polka Dots,  irreverent like Salvador Dali's

 

bloodstained mouth during World War 3.

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

Winston Churchill in Liverpool, as Chromatic Dragons Fly

RATE: 0 Flag 

Kali, 

the mantra of gumballs 

at the crest of the western light,

when the sun is disappearing into the 

blueness of a whales belly,

a thousand Avatars rushing across the darkness

of the world

like the rhapsody of Flowers that have grown 

feet 

and are leaping like a circus of undomesticated 

angels

towards the Pentagon of Her Heart,

a Lion Tamer controls 

the last Button made, the Off Switch

to the Universe,

Dial Zero for Apocalypse, just as the Hungry Ghosts

described on their way to the bottom 

of the rainforest floor,

where the silverfish and jaguars are chanting 

the nursery rhyme of Eden,

every unfinished question trapped in the air

like an unborn child,

the Lightning Bug a sentinel beckoning 

the human heart out of it's Cage,

a wild violin

racing through a sky spinning with infinite hallelujahs,

the laughter of God

never being what it would seem to be,

a strange chuckling or gurgling that crushes the skull

until the silence itself

seems like something mocking the Human Spirit,

an Dragon that Winston Churchill even 

might never have noticed,

despite the strange light that gathered in the back of his eyes

during those hours spent wandering Liverpool. 

***

At the Last Moment Before Sleep, the Room is Zoo of Shadows

RATE: 0 Flag 

White blood, where the river erases the earth,

erupts into a portrait of the Queen,

her face tangled with the Sunlight,

the roots of heaven sending strange perfumes

out from the inside of her flesh,

where the universe is like Las Vegas,

rushing with Catholicity of Nuns

as they rush from Ground Zero to the Place of Ancient Comedy,

their hearts pulsed

by the remote control of some Bible,

driven by alphabets and syntax 

into contextual furies, the endless lies of Infinity,

a mad salvation that turns the Queen's face into 

a chalkboard of paranoia,

the random numbers, the words that are more than words,

the logical operators that turn the fingerprint

into a labyrinth of negative consequence, 

every twitching of every freckle like the bursting of an orphan's heart,

at just the right moment,

when the cup

falls to the floor and the ceiling seems ten thousand miles away,

a pomengranite shadow racing around the room

like the first Whodunit,

when the world was made out of Trigonometric Monsters 

and the Strange language of chirps and whispers that rush through the curtains

in bougainvilleas of insanity,

that last moment before sleep when the Entire Room has Become 

greater than the Sum of the Entire Known Universe

and the Knights arrive,

bathed in aluminim foil and the heartache of the Trees,

their atomic structure governed by the laws of the Kingdom

that has no Beginning or End 

but lives in the Space like a Rose Garden sleeping

under the Soil. 

***

Psychotic Shinto Fluorescence

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

Summa Deadhead Epoch,

the night of ennervated neurosis, 

ghastly fruit warbling around the neutrality of now,

a strange flood of crushed bone

trampling the city into the language 

of kites trapped on the tongue of a Shinto Priest

bathed in fluorescent light

where nobody else exists save a strange mathematical spider,

the kind of being one 

finds laced inside the newsprint like an exploding 

punctuation mark,

full of wine and the amnesia of Marcel Proust,

there where the wildflowers are gambling for your clothes

and the Bank

is eating its way around the library, consuming 

all wisdom with an exploding seagull

made in Atlantis by the men whose eyes contain secret transistors

and the ancient malady 

is contagious and disturbing, turning the Vagabonds over in their 

sleep 

like Walt Whitman administering a secret admonition to a fallen 

soldier on the edge of the muddy roadside,

the human eye bursting with minnows and other 

phantasmagoria of the first creation, there:

somewhere on the edge of the River that flows 

down from the Arctic Circle, 

where the Eskimos have planted ten trillion snowflakes

in the memory of Perpetual motion,

a pendulum that swings out of the living mouth 

like Socrates tongue during a parade 

of Sybils,

on the banks of the Shore 

where the waves speak sermons of white noise 

***

Irreverent as Salvador Dali's Tulip Stained Mouth During WW3

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

tremuluous manifesto.  Writing that howls down the telephone poles,

scurrying out at 3:00 am, when Sylvia Plath is nursing a raven

with ghosts that sleep in her n*****s, and the city is full of green lights

that cannot stop blinking.  Golems of danger. Toxic fantasies

burped from the windowsills of disenchanted beings, every cemetery containing 

plumes of poisoned mist, the nightmares circulating around the Newspaper building

like a catalogue of Subatomic Particles.  Someone screams,

you cannot divide by Zero.  The show begins, in an alleyway where the 

Mailmen are drunk like Socrates, Icarus is stitching his wounds catgut

until the sound of the piano 

makes the Universe seem suddenly hollow.  The architect rolls over in it's sleep,

a hermaphroditic batwing 

whirls from roof to roof, until at the last moment of three am, the thunder begins

to rumble and nobody notices.

The magic of the Still point, Motion of the Mandala.  Optical Illusions

that contain entire Universes coded in every single photon, or pixel, or polka dot,

regardless of what Nostradamus 

said, that night in the Parisian Graveyard, where his pipe smoke curled into 

a fractal that could not be deciphered, the indescribable fury of his Grandmother

escaping from his lungs and drifting out into the Night Until there was nothing left 

but those Polka Dots,  irreverent like Salvador Dali's

 

bloodstained mouth during World War 3.

***

A Chorus of Indelible Etymologies: Trigonometry of Silences

RATE: 0 Flag 

The chorus of the indelible etymology:

a single word,

nursed on the Tongues of Liars.

Has derived the trigonometric properties of 

the Letter Z.

And when spoken, the lost word rises 

out of the mouth,

the speed of sound through a Crowded Room

multiplied by the Speed of Consciousness

through the Ears of the Sybil,

her eyes like light bulbs,

illuminated from the inside by the Portrait of Dorian Gray,

until at the last moment before speech

A VERB ENTERS, disguised as a Wineglass.

THe chandelier agrees, but nobody can quite determine the sequence

of events,

a general spinning that is neither earthly nor heavenly nor even 

resembling hell,

but rather that of an internal fantasia

the kind that Mozart must have discovered lurking 

inside the Nightingales wing,

that night in Vienna when the last of the clouds had blurred

into inky Minarets,

and something went swimming by, the breeze of the Architect 

whose footsteps sounded 

like Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star

and the doorway opened, the path arrived and the end of the road 

could never be found.   And the speed of sound was no longer a speed

at all,

but a still point,

a balancing of the impossible 

in the world of what used to be real. 

And in the syllables of that word,

the A - the E - the O - the I - the U 

tripping down 

into the paranoia of the Consonants:

a hard G

the plosive P

there was a certain derivation of incalculable madness,

even as the Nightingale determined

there would be,

with those beings whose wings 

were composed of mere Imagination. 

***

In a Lizard Costume on Wheel of Fortune, Details @ 9

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

There was a blind pedestrian,

waiting on the sidewalk near St. Patrick's Cathderal,

where a thousand strangers 

were discovering the Psychology of Columbus

and Andy Warhol

waging some strange drunken hysteria

that burned in their flesh like Van Gogh's tears

or perhaps 

the recipe for Salvation that was lost 

ten thousand years ago,

sleeping i perhaps in some ancient papyrus,

where the Sphinx nests it's Changelings 

among eyes containing  eyes 

of all the other eyes combined,

until the moment the Universe is unlocked and

the stars arrive like ancient ancestors

whose footsteps are choreographed

by the brownian Motion of the spiritual Supernova,

every lost memory of God

suddenly describing itself on the television set

in the punch lines of Cartoons

drawn by Intoxicated Hierophants.

*

On the television, that day: 

there were 100 car chases

two dozen death scenes

one thousand intoxicating speeches

an endless parade of Robot Queens,

thirteen well timed lies,

ten thousand mysterious faces,

a hundred undead bodies

whirling like the phantasmagoric consciousness

of Medusa,

her fingers clutching Pandora's Box

until at the last moment,

the Universe Blinks

and the Argonauts arrive, disguised as Game Show Hosts,

their remote controls 

aimed at the Pentagon. 

*

At the end of the question, when Vanna White 

curled her lips into a ruby swirl,

the audience began to twitch,

their faces blurred into a beautiful dystopian bonfire,

prayers of the Night

glittering in the klieg lights until 

even Zeus seemed real,

as if the Doors were opening into Xanadu

where Kublai Khan

would send the Cadillac

home to Grandma. 

*

It didn't happen like that.   The algorithm

failed.

The puzzle remained unsolved.  Too many vowels,

the consonants were trapped on the tongue

like Morse Code buried in a Butterflies Neurons,

that phantasmagoria 

of the First World, where the Cherubim

are sending their love letters to the Green Ones,

there on Channel 20,

which has been selected to begin 

at the end of time,

the perfect moment selected and preprogrammed

all the way back 

when the first dolphin

climbed back into the Sea,

an act of evolutionary intelligence 

unsurpassed by those lost, wandering around  

Lizard Costumes

inside the television, if you know what They Mean.  

YOUR TAGS: Add

TIP:   Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!  

SHARE:

***

The Many Worlds of Now, where Godot is Waiting for Godot

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

A vertical vertigo in the verdant 

nadir of Dante's adamantine denouement,

down dawn

like the Ghost of Lady Godiva,

tripping on timbres of tantric consciousness

until the lost world 

runs like sunlit cobblestone, into the place where the 

Shadows are paint by number

recipes for the Perfect Gasp,

a hauntingly odd combination of Madness

where Rimbaud taught the Tarantula 

his secret name

until the Kingdom of Spiders exhaled a tornadic

fantasy of absinthe and poppies,

leaving Baudelaire gasping in the white neutral rain,

the Spirit of some Zen Master trapped in the Web

that grows like Heaven in the ligaments of God.

On the way through the door, the lightning began to introduce 

itself to those whose names remain unknown.

A carouselambra of pupils, 

the Iris of Iridescent Eloquence, soliliquys of gut wrenching whispers,

racing against the mouth 

as if they had somewhere to go,

the piano sitting in the cage like a Lion 

appearing Center Stage 

during Macbeth, the audience hypnotized by something 

Hamlet said, three plays ago,

when nobody was listening and the doors to the theatre 

burst open,

revealing an insane asylum,

empty of course,

save Godot. 

On the way through the Street of the Instantaneous Tragedy:

the human face is a Zoological Specimen, of beauty and the indeterminate wisdom,

the Many Worlds 

rotating in the Cellular Nuclei of Ordinary people,

a philosopher's nightmare, 

like the moment Nietzsche stared into the mirror

for twelve hours straight,

recognizing nothing, creation ex nihilo,

the solipsism of the unborn. 

***

The Many Worlds of Now, where Godot is Waiting for Godot

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

A vertical vertigo in the verdant 

nadir of Dante's adamantine denouement,

down dawn

like the Ghost of Lady Godiva,

tripping on timbres of tantric consciousness

until the lost world 

runs like sunlit cobblestone, into the place where the 

Shadows are paint by number

recipes for the Perfect Gasp,

a hauntingly odd combination of Madness

where Rimbaud taught the Tarantula 

his secret name

until the Kingdom of Spiders exhaled a tornadic

fantasy of absinthe and poppies,

leaving Baudelaire gasping in the white neutral rain,

the Spirit of some Zen Master trapped in the Web

that grows like Heaven in the ligaments of God.

On the way through the door, the lightning began to introduce 

itself to those whose names remain unknown.

A carouselambra of pupils, 

the Iris of Iridescent Eloquence, soliliquys of gut wrenching whispers,

racing against the mouth 

as if they had somewhere to go,

the piano sitting in the cage like a Lion 

appearing Center Stage 

during Macbeth, the audience hypnotized by something 

Hamlet said, three plays ago,

when nobody was listening and the doors to the theatre 

burst open,

revealing an insane asylum,

empty of course,

save Godot. 

On the way through the Street of the Instantaneous Tragedy:

the human face is a Zoological Specimen, of beauty and the indeterminate wisdom,

the Many Worlds 

rotating in the Cellular Nuclei of Ordinary people,

a philosopher's nightmare, 

like the moment Nietzsche stared into the mirror

for twelve hours straight,

recognizing nothing, creation ex nihilo,

the solipsism of the unborn. 

***

The Gift of Phosphor to the Electromagnetic Magi

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

at the chiming of the bells,

it will be Einstein O'Clock.  The light will spin

around, discovering Gorillas bathing 

in it's chromaticity, ten thousand wild cherries

bursting on the rooftop of the World,

where the Dalai Lama is giving the Sky 

a bath 

in the depths of his own brain, until the human 

pulses (all seven billion of them)

suddenly (instantaneously) synchronize,

and a jaguar is born 

at the base of Macchu Picchu,

where the Universe is descending like Picasso

down a stairwell made of Paint,

into a shadowy egress

of plumes and fire, the sacrosanct abyss that quavers

in hemidemisemiquavers of post atomic consciousness

around the dream 

the Rainforest brewed in the Vine

at the moment of Zenith within Nadir,

a circle that cannot contain itself,

unfinished elixirs of creation spilling over the rim of the sky,

where the Them have assembled,

their laughter racing from Vortice to Vortice

and illuminations of the Seraphim,

every footstep of the Uncreated creator

falling 

in rain and shadow,

to the places that nobody has ever been

a Mother's heart,

a Human Soul twelve feet below Grand Central Station,

the whirligigs of mechanical beings

erupting with a strange 

madness of Machines --- the clockwork telepathy

of Aluminum, the Gift of Phosphor to the Electromagnetic Magi,

their skin bursting in probabilities 

and indeterminate heresies 

that one day will spring 

from Jean Paul Sartre's forehead, fully clothed 

like a book that was written 

against the flow of Space and Time. 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

Picasso's Illuminated Bacchanalia, a Storm God Bongos at 13

RATE: 0 Flag 

logical mysteries 

there: where the point of action

erupts into a Trillion thoughts: a wrinkled face appears.

At the still point of the Nursery rhyme, there are 

Wild children assembled themselves inside the video games,

their faces buried the grasshopper laden wheat --- 

the suggestions of the wind, a billboard growling with the 

Book of Deuteronomy,

the astonishing indifference 

of the stars,

a gardener's trembling heart grown 

with pallid daisies around the mouth of the hopeless God.

They are walking into the perfected despair.

 Their eyes are bleached 

and their ears are dishes of wine. The street is a wounded stomach,

digesting history the way a Psychologist 

swallows a stolen suicide note: 

pregnancies of Incubi and misbegotten Seraphim, 

draped chasms of scars from unforgotten 

centuries --- there:  where the   

The road becomes a piece of paper, story by story laced with 

Raven's wings.  

Every step: an alphabetic pandemonium,

a riot of words and thought,

until the Waves collapse

into an Intersection, the  

The trigonometry of UFO's.

Godzilla Engines.  Purple plumes of carbon monoxide that enters the lungs,

the Mirror Image of Hawaii, and the masks of tool making Vagabonds.  

Faceless women dressed like heat seeking clowns telling dirty jokes

in the Theatre of Cruelty:  Antonin Artaud selling his poems

in the Pawn Shop. 

Strange children chasing stray dogs 

around a Carnival of Twice Broken Toys.  Bonfires of the Newspaper Cult.

Stainless steel crucifixes hung with robotic Christs,

chanting random numbers and the Scriptures of the Last Machine.

  The junkyard prophet, his face bursting like the tongue of a witch. 

howling a menagerie of truth and lies, until

fuel injected card sharks spin in the permanent 

mind f**k of Silence and contemplative furies,

a drunken caterwaul at 3 am,

when the shroud is shredded, the necklace is a guillotine,

rags and flags of the Unreal Nation that 

waits to be born, hang suspended in perfect awareness, 

the Kingdom of Heaven balanced at the edge of the razor 

pressed into the throat, 

where a suicidal Columbus, whose Christlike foolishness burned a path 

from Genoa to Spain and then to Kentucky Fried Chicken,

his bloodshot eyes gathering the last thoughts of angels

whose fingertips trace apologies of Madmen

from nowhere to nowhere

until the dusk of God's wisdom 

settles into snowflake symphony of imaginary beings

and at the moment the sun clutches the World like an Egg,

the mystery itself:

swallows the human soul, it's dung flush tongue dusting dusk into an unsudden rust 

of lungs that rustle with the lust of undiscovered constructions: 

exhaling the ghost of the Storm God

whose feet are tramping at the End of the World,

bloody and raw, the Picasso of Illuminated Resurrections, 

painting the paint by number Apocalypse, 

moment by moment --- toes and eyelids of the miracles

bursting into the Wine 

of pandemonic dissolution, a bell curve lurking in the flood ---  

the wisdom of the Rainbow

lost inside the Temple of the God of Styrofoam Cups. 

***

A Rainbow Lit the Human Flesh

RATE: 0 Flag 

The people gathered, like Mothers in a Maternity Ward,

warning themselves of the Lost children, 

faces trapped inside the sky of dancing starlight,

Unicorns and Basilisks painting tarantulas of NIght 

on the belly of the Sky, where the restaurant 

is an asylum of Fevers. 

By the river,  the black garden opens like 

a woman's mouth,

opening into the starlight,

swallowing tears of the night,

the madness of God remaining.

*

One by one, those exotic wisps of Unsurrendered Empathy

tripped like toeless ballerinos

around razor wire of broken light & the music 

of the Invisible Swan, 

whose beak is the trumpet of shadows, 

nursing the fire of Athens in the dark lamp of Heaven

as they nodded into the music 

sweeping the skin into flags of Undiscovered Countries

eye into eye rolling into the brain like 

barrels of sky blue wine, 

the soul 

peering, searching, tripping down corridors of nerve 

into that place

where the Heart becomes a Mirror full of 

Ghosts

*

On the west side of the River, the children found 

there were UFO's balanced in teacups.  Chameleons that painted

portraits of Flies on the surface of the water,

and a Magician of the Felicity of Neutrons 

racing through the sky 

on a cloud. 

  The voice of Infinity hurled vowels of 

creation around the lagoon, a strange perfume that curved

like the tooth of a snake, the eyelid of the Goddess

of Memory, a windowsill full of purple guitars.

  Against the rhythm of the drums, 

the harpsichord struck, a doorbell that opened the door

into the perfect nothingness of fallen angels. 

*

The ancient natives, their faces coated in Soot

lifted the wings of the Dragon 

across the rooftop of Heaven, revealing a place

full of treasures that were not treasures at all

but Mystery that multiplies every thing by zero 

They turned, a spiral of magic enquestioning,

the heart of the Kingdom thrushing in  a pulse

of rivers as red as the bonfires of Heaven,

until the Strange Thing happened,

and the River moved against the flow of Consciousness,

curved the edge of the Sea,

and the crowd of Strangers 

suddenly stopped.

*

A rainbow lit the human flesh. The womans arm became a tree full of thunder

cheek upon cheek, Ezekiel's wheels sang parables of kinetic motion 

and

kissed the dream of the dream that nobody knew could begin.

the surface of the water, appeared the Lady of the Lake

her eyes the color of Moon Rocks,

adamantine madness of serendipity

tripping on tongue of sunburnt surrender, that moment 

when the Many Worlds circled,

embers of endless centuries flickering across the tables

where the Humans were brewing flowers of unconscious

continuity.

*

The Thing Itself began dancing, in networks of sinew and bone.

Fulcrums of hopping. Pirouettes of Fibonacci.  Intimate waltzes

of Godless beings, taunting even 

the Salamander face of Nijinsky

 through the flood of Human HIbiscus,

thirteen thousand wounded roses tangoing

 across the skin like Matadors

gored by Angelic Bulls, Picasso painting a blue dot upon the 

woman's tongue,

as the laughter of Heaven brought the sky 

down, a strange umbrella  hovering over the grave

of the Fisherman's Bride, her veil like the scale

of a Trout,

where the river is hot and thrashing with the curiousity 

of the Sea.

*

The crowd nursed a trillion wounds in instantaneous salvation

of the Human Face.  Crushed petals of white heather,

dark trolls knotting columns of smoke  

in the Vineyard, as the ligaments ripple down fingers

of the Travelling Physician.  The drum began pushing it's way

through the crowd,

a hallowed fantasia of insanity, the scintillating lick 

of the Dragon whose brain grows star fire

and the wing that bursts into the sky 

revealing the face of Edgar Allen Poe,

whose Winking Eye remains, a lightning bolt blue egg 

of rainclouds

shedding the feathers of the Phoenix

as the river disappears into the ground. 

*

When the Physicians eyes clocked the night into purses of solitude,

an unfamiliar bird (traveling like God, 

alone in the Vacant Spaces) --- paused in the passages of the cerebellum,

and the Greek God 

Plato climbed out of the grave, announcing his resurrection,

his life as the Doorman to the Ocean

begun,

trilobytes like Argonauts mesmerized in 

Castles of Wave. 

*

And at that instant: the Imaginary Beings

drew a dream in the phase space of You, where

sleeping is something that surprises even 

the God of the Godless Gods. 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

As If the World had Not Begun

RATE: 0 Flag

Email

The circle of Life,

cannot be contained by the knotted sinews of the forest,

the sunlight itself,

escaping into the flesh of travelling strangers,

the last word of the last conversation

with a friend 

you will never see again,

trapped in the sky

and the top of the eyes 

as if they too were made of elementary particles,

a catalogue of scientific equations,

billboards opening their throats into the dark 

stage of the sky,

where the convergence of the kingdoms

is revealed in the face of a Leaf that begins to speak

in whispers,

the green wealth of the Garden like the surging magic of the cricket,

eyes

that explode in the Many Worlds,

screaming doremifasolatido 

into the Elemental absolutions of Impermanence. 

*

On the table, there was a flooded flower,

the Spirit of Antonin Artaud

traced in chrome and the riddle of Absinthe,

serendipities madmen gathering crushed eyelids

as they drained the night 

of it's syllogisms, every broken bone like a sorcerer's wand

burning in illuminated wisdom, 

the laugher of the plasma, the electronic curve of the cauldron

on the edge of the night sky,

a strange plaster phantom and the madness of the Peasant,

whose grave 

will remain untended until the dragon curls it's smokey wings

and reveals the prison where the 

Dream began

a rock of light in the corpuscular abyss,

the nocturne turning above the point of pointlessness,

glissando of eternal undulating fugue

remaining like the Word

that races through the Alphabet,

exchanging mystery to mystery

as if the world 

had never really yet begun. 

YOUR TAGS: Add

***

The Ventriloquist Mime at the Windowsill of the Night

RATE: 0 Flag 

At the tip of the fingerprint, there is a phantom choir,

that sings 

the sea shanties of the undiscovered God,

every fool's heart from the Universe

responding like the dream that balances in the brainstem

during certain thunderstorms,

the clouds themselves like caskets of rain,

dropping down

unannounced, having conversations with the broken wine glass

as it races down the street 

into the gutter, 

where the Eyes of God are waiting,

surprised by the sound of the Universe

as it is surprised by the surprising turn

of ancient maladies in the last of the Summer rain,

when the windowsills are shut

like Memories, buried in the Bones of passengers

whose journey has not begun,

those who stand 

on the edge of the Stage

and misquote the Ventriloquist 

until the Mime,

a perfect shadow, has disappeared into the Night 

***

Weatherbeaten Acrobats and the Curiosity of the Dead

RATE: 0 Flag 

the deep sea fish are waiting 

like the unanswered prayers of certain wise men

whose bodies 

are scarred by the wind, by the Whiskey,

by the language of the Lie

as it races around the world in timbres

of hypnotic suggestion,

the human tongue performing acts of camouflage

around the bonfire 

of insanity,

every word a trick and trap, a wounded child

lashing out 

at the fireplace, singing songs in an empty room

where the eyes are Orpaned

by the portrait of a Strange Bird

gathering it's miracles, while waiting on the wall

as if Matisse had cast a shadow during some atomization 

of the Soul, 

revealing the place where the Parisian country side

had burst into transcendental fires,

and the yellow marigolds had fled into the great oblivion

of Buddhas bursting brain,

and only a weatherbeaten coin 

remained, revealing the lost art of Saints

as a work of Acrobats 

and Mimes, there where the music comes unburied in the twitching 

of a grape,

the vine that races around graveyard

until the stories arrive in patterns of delusion and the curiosity 

of the Dead. 

***

Cartwheeling in the Ether Above the Wheat and Palindromes

RATE: 0 Flag 

in the white tide

of broken rock, where the invisible world

waits

for the Saints to decipher the memory 

of the dead.

:  She lost her self among the broken mirrors,

a trillion seabirds

squawking in the squall of her dissolution,

the Army of Engineers

standing roadside where the Circus waits,

broken toys scattered around a bonfire of the Sanities,

Mnemosyne,

the Mother of the Muses, escaping through the empty sky

on an umbrella 

broken, shredded madness through the winded night,

the same field where the angels once slept,

cartwheeling into Ether,

above the wheat and palindromes,

a strange escarpment full of Demi Gods

and the dream that burns in patterns from the edge of the Skull

across the stars

and back,

into the silent and unfathomable kingdom 

where nobody sleeps,

a War of the Philosophers brewing tea inside 

the Cup of the Endless Emptiness,

at the verge where not even the Name remains,

but a placid surrender at the top of that strange Mountain

made of Human TEars

and the unfinished suffering of the Unborn,

whose faces

are crushed beneath the chariots 

spinning in cycles of the abandoned sky,

ten trillion ghosts 

bursting into cloudlike whispers, every 

intoxication seeming like the windswept beach where 

the first beings crawled, 

their eyestalks paused in heliotropic admonitions

to the curtain of the blueness

billowing like a prayer shawl 

at the Beginning of Time.