4.03.2015

BLOOD MOON




Through windows
of breathing homes, tungsten-lighted
tongue-flipping flicks antiquated white noise outward
into vast openness, like sleep
to the slaughter,
where the ghostly moon’s pale-faced
pearly flab

(a floating opal of synesthesia)

has scooped up every form of whiteness
in a deep-space translucent brouhaha,
like runny egg yolks
blurring by
like windshield wipers,

& out of the berry-red eyes
of Goethe’s Colored Shadows,

(clouds, soft as eyelids, evanescing from the sky),

the blood moon’s oracle of sardonyx—
like burnt heifers, old as myth-hinds,
scorching by presence alone,
like the Basilisk of Cyrene—unfolds upon us
as strawberry rashes; fresh sparkling
ruby-spirited heel-tapping equator.

A Red Carpet is rolled out.

One can find corneas there.

In this mortal spoil, we’re wooed
where we linger,
like the dead in their intimate caskets
tickled pink in refracted flashbacks,
scalping romantic consciences
of the heavenly attic—
a kind of exolution
from the Tower of Oblivion.

The substance of my “personal metaphysics”
dissolves into a d├ęcor entirely habitable
when the Mazzaroth spins like plates
around me
in this waltzing night of indigo, this night
of extroverted carnation
-blush where I watch as the dewy grass-spikes
shiver like Pluto,

vibrating vertebrates of trees;
my spine, nearly lunged out like
blood-red roses, rare nosebleeds
of misfired air-pockets

where we inhale and exhale diaphragm hallelujahs,

puncturing vignettes
where the midnight-flight
of an invisible flashbulb pops through
shatter-starred windowpanes
where  the “blind spots” see:

Moonbeams soon to gulp down
one’s morning’s coffee—
marvelous fireworks of flavor.

Later, one is jelly-jawed & full of oblong songs.

All Things start to dream as soon as the harp plays.

Wherever you go your spirit flakes off a little.

Numbness is sprinkled throughout my bosom.

Our optical nerves are connected to the lunar
looking-glass apparition:

ephemera obscura elongated
where I’m merely waxing gibberish,
but

as if the Burning Bush had been placed into
a reverberatory furnace, or having borrowed
the inward countenance of Kilimanjaro,

it matters not. 




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