The Channel of Unfinished Endlessness

Bloody palms turning fluorescent in the depths of the lunatic asylum.

Stigmata: the nine epicycles of the anterior sulci.  A ghost, slipping 

through the nostrils until the French countryside is balancing an atom 

of it's verdant elegance in the place between the spine and the Sky.  This is everywhere.

A white castle, suspending itself between parenthesis: the name of the name, 

written in no language but rather in the ten thousand codices of the 

vegetation, the wing: the root, the claw, the eye: a manifesto of 

heretical onomatopoeia, like the instant the rain curled around Isaac Newton's 

forehead and turned a volume of Thunder around a single point of light,

and the rainbow decohered, 300 million hues of spectral anomalies surrendering 

the First thought to the field, and the Name turns around, like a whirlwind 

calling itself out across the Disincarnate Sea.  The Gravity, they sang: in the leaves

where the Angels are waiting, suspended in raindrops, paused on cornices and cusps

of basilisk fragmented by the quasicrystalline embers of some preternatural void;

taught God to remember the Problem with Infinity. 

*

An omniscient something: lurking in the billows of the rain, scarlet admonitions 

of non linear fire escaping against the tide, up through the moonlight 

where the windowsill is waiting like an Open Ear.  Inside the Blueprint,

the mandala is churning.  A series of nursery rhymes that echo down the unfurled 

spine off the tongue into the starlight.  A raven's wing, holding a grape

in the foxfire of the dawn.  The clover exploding like an old woman's purse, 

rippled into filigree of adamantine wisdom: opalesque miracles of light 

that seem like the eyes of a cat, there on the edge of the atmosphere the city 

sits like a sawtoothed smile, ten million love songs boiling human hearts across

the rooftops where Ezekiel and Godot are exchanging their memories, whoever waits

in the alleyways is weeping another drop of wine.  The way that the ceiling curves

in the unbalancing of summer, when the flowers leap out of the ground and through the 

human fingerprint into Platonic simulacra: a pastel jonquil, a blossom of thought whitened

daisy, there : crushed into the disincarnate void, Mona Lisa balancing a Nightingale

behind her back in suspended animation.  The ghost of da Vinci rides by on a Unicycle,

and the litter assembles in the schoolyard as if in perpetual defiance of Creation. 

*

The waltz of vignette through the cliche, a language that oscillates in 

the pearls of fragmented thought: there where the doormen collect random phrases,

ideas that seem outlandish as they crack through the sounds of the street:

a guttery scented wind listing against the cheek like the tongue of Frankenstein,

when the clock above the Tower suddenly comes to a stop, even as you are watching 

in bewilderment, and the sense of exorbitant mystery converges in the twitch 

of a persimmon colored eyelid.  

*

The dream of Ulysses: on the edge of the razor, there is an ocean of Leukocytes.

Blood & ink, the rivers that connect the Light to the Shade, the fantasias of incalculable

madness and the ordinary world: what is left of it,

in the places where the Machines have not arrived, decoded the randomnicity 

of the Moment Before conception,

that instantaneous simultaneity of the eternal here and now.  that place

the hippies talked about until the backs of their heads exploded in silence,

the vibrating megaplexes of virtual reality blooming in technicolor phantasmagoria

popcorn descending down a stairwell at twice the speed of Walter Cronkite's voice,

until nothing made sense but the eloquent silence that seemed itself to defy 

all human understanding:  explain this.  Explain the Silence. 

*

There was a moment when the doorway was colored the color of an automobile 

headlight.  The shadow looked like a Smiley face.  A silver spoon fell to the floor,

jolting the ear into a place of uncertain beginnings.  The subtlety 

of a Stage Magician; Blink and the Universe dissolves into a Burning City.

The sense of cause and effect, the magical moment when human consciousness:

neuron by neuron: is assembled into a series of geometrical comprehensions:

synchronized firing patterns whose origins are the by product of human history,

and whose existence in the ordinary world is like a swarm of butterflies 

balanced in a hurricane eye:  invisible to all but Zeus, perhaps. They themselves

are the Promethean fire, quailing in the derivatives of imaginary numbers,

like Clowns faces suspended in a bonfire, as the makeup is melting and the 

moment seems fraught with unearthly significance.  This is the point of convergence:

the Truth becomes Fact, the Fact becomes Fiction, the Fiction: a series of unfinished 

lies: the Lies? An act of unfathomable transformations,

patterns nesting within patterns in the subspace of human consciousness,

where there are mysteries the Mind itself cannot contain.  It was as if one was

watching a Symphony of Buddhas arriving in Parachutes above the skyline of disneyland.

*

On the television, the Tea Preacher was inviting the Audience to move to Kentucky 

and start a movement of Faith Healing.  There were serpents in the world, there 

were apparitions, and tribulations of the Soul that would smell of sulphur and brimstone

and challenge the Mind of Humanity.  The Pop Stars were a pantheon of fallen angels,

bringing the message of the Revolution of Heaven to the amphitheatre where the good people

were waiting to get back to the real world --- whatever was left of the real world.

Change the channel, Arthur.  Outside the window, there was the sound of wheels spinning.

A strange cat : going berzerk in the bushes outside: began to sound in that eerie

sound of a wailing of an infant. Bloodcurdling & toxic to the sensibility. Think about 

calling Someone.  A door slammed shut and a star exploded on the other side of the known universe,

the Galactic Fire is everywhere. You *are* in outer space, and contained in some 

of those sentences: the graffiti writhing on the highway abdomen: is a Codex 

of Unfinished Endlessness.