Anonymous Beings of the Post Modern Modalities

At the end of time, the Anonymous being 

is trapped in an Afterworld, that the Anonymous Being itself  not certain 

is actually an Afterworld at all 

but rather exists in hyperpositional synchronized manifestations,

a cubist pastiche of juxtaposed convergences, 

the last vestiges of God's imagination,

optical illusions sun bathing in the moonlit hurricanes of 

some trigonometrical Shangri La

whirling through spacetime 

in a series of what would -- even by Godlike determination, be considered : 

impossible events.

In this moment, that anonymous being:

witnesses strange flesh of fractals and fire. Words that race like Wittgensteins' memory across 

desertified environments where Fists becomes Fish becomes Fire becomes flame and fame is a  Fear of the Freedom 

of the Anonymity itself, a strange 

undefined Kingdom of Ink where the world disintegrates with every  sweep of an Existentialists' Tongue,

 ten thousand emanations of whatever Pantheon

 flutter on antelopes of phosphorous 

across the skin, licking the dusk that is not happening into gaslit bacchanalian frenzies,

 taste buds burning wisdom of the Ancient Savannah with the strange wine of wildebeast nightmares,  

boiling laboratories of torrid delusion, 

the alchemical mechanization of Time, 

when the Abyss is a Sybil in Sibilant Systems, 

the letter S racing through the world in a series of Inestimable Synergies. 

One screams, when the door to

Edgar Allen Poe's memory palace Laughs: 

and the Streets of Baltimore ignite with the Haunted Faces of the Saints, 

the windows filling with the tears of

 women weeping as when night burns into bloodshot eyes of strangers 

lost in the wind 

 and the whispers of Winter roses transpose against the silence 

like the first words of a newborn,

a Greek island in the distance howling 

some alchemical madness. 

On this ancient greek shore 

the night sky,

itself --- not mere starlight,

not what the Human Beings could possibly imagine;

those ten trillion trillion trillion galaxies shining,

the ancient starlight 

filling the night like an empty cup 

 began igniting the ancient blueprints in the Sand. 

New designs. New meanings. 

this is the number that gave birth to a Dog. 

This one: taught Einstein to laugh. 

ANother, shaped like the room where Madame Curie discovered 

her pillow was full of strange salty diadems,

 is used to calculate the number of stars that

 have never been born.

 As the trilobyte engineers each of these fractalline sequences,

 the Ocean sand suddenly flickers, 

the way a television set does when thrown to into the 

dumpster by a Mime. And the world --- 

the world the world has not defined, 

somehow has no knowledge of where it is anymore, 

like that moment of sudden realization in any Given City 

when a door is just a door, but there are too many of them

 and the windows become symbolic, but not of windows, 

not of wombs, but like broken toys being disassembled 

in some hysterical system of disbelief and one 

hears a popping sound at the back of the brain and 

*** On the day the Ouija board was invented, 

there was a Greek witness stirring the coals of a 

strange fire that was made of dead men's bones.

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

 remains, a wild unfathomable sense of mystery as 

the smoke polished the lungs into a Spirit

 that knew nothing but contained phantomesque 

speech of the Sphinx, there on the sand, 

full of turquoise and roses. 

The ocean was a wild chrysathemum, 

a noise of something slurping itself into sleep, 

the way a boat is pulled into the daydream of Einstein 

and a Dragon suddenly appears, there where the beginning of 

time tastes like a root beer float, 

and nothing remains save the sad eyes of conquest,

 Columbus bright smile, a tattoo the natives cannot begin to explain

 --- on the edge of the ocean there is a moment 

when the first Ion of the Sea exchanges wedding vows

 with the last Ion of the Sky and the wind is a train tunnel 

of bicameral phantasms tracing empty alphabets 

agains the current optical modality of the Sea Lion's eye.