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 décor 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.