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.