Recycled auras  of indigo skinned children orphaned by psychology's beautiful lie pop in the rhythm of the strange non linear bacterial fog;  their eyes come unbalanced like dice in the fist of a messiah gambling for Godhead.  

 

A transcendental climax ripples through the skin of dissonant beings nursing their insanity in the memory of Now.

 

Eyes rotate on eyestalks toward the dream that may not exist.

  

 

A coiled link of human hair rolls across six toenails painted with golden seashells.

 

 

The sidewalk screams like the ghost of Marlon Brando.

 

The King of Vagabond pauses, it's androgynous mouth opening and closing like a puppet's asshole.   

 

 

A series of whispers float toward the halogen penumbra,  fire and language commingling in the  vacuous fuzz.

 

 

It has become real.  Again. 

 

 

With only the faintest trace of wisdom, the scintillating flashpoint of madness redefines what it means to be alive.

 

 

As the newspaper blurs it's sickly waltz of broken syntax towards an alleyway the color of an  esophagus, my heart becomes a Hiroshima of doubt.

 

My blood is champagne in the mouth of a dying soldier. 

 

As the galaxy curves toward the black hole of Godless inaction, I peer deep in the Vagabonds eyes.  They are a strange shade of tomorrow.

 

Instinctively, the Vagabond reaches out and tries to slit my throat.

 

I slip into a sushi bar.  Three women painted naked in the pinkness of the soft lie of wealth,  eye me the way the sunlight eyes a newborn dolphin. 

 

The scent of my body travels toward the kitchen.  As my pheremones explode in the nostrils of the sane,  I sense their bodies hardening.  

 

 It is the mythology of dogs lost in the permant now. 

 

Molecule by molecule the legends of yesterday cascade towards the thin man's reptilian hindbrain.

 

I am as calm as a lizard trapped in Jim Morrison's imagination.

 

The dolphin faced women's heads snap to attention.  

 

Microseconds later, Chopin's mazurkas juggle themselves into my soul.

 

The television is like the theatre of an Impermanent Hell.  

 

The newscast falls off the journalist's mouth like Shakespeare stuttering in the dark.

 

Five murders.  Ten thousand missing.  The war of sanities rages on.

 

The journalists breath smells like absinthe from behind the ever expanding screen.

 

I chart a course through his psychological history into the year he was beaten by strangers whose eyes were like lenses on demonic cameras.

 

One of the women disappears in a trace of body language echoing in point to point observation.  

 

Her accomplices look as bored as God during the last day of Apocalypse.

 

Their faces rotate in opposite directions.   The restaurant becomes a spaceship.

 

Jesus Christ hurls his body into the future where nobody even really cares.

 

I laugh.  My face becomes a party balloon. 

 

Through the door comes a strangely furious man.  

 

He looks like a robot lost in a permanently mutating electronic cloud.

 

I think of my Father and the men that he killed involuntarily.  

 

The tears of God fall from the ever receding ceiling.

 

Every second, the people in the restaurant are trying.  Trying to control.

 

Their teeth are like lawnmowers.   No. 

 

Their teeth are like knives hacking mercilessly  through riddles of flesh.

 

Do fish have senses of humor?  Is the ocean itself like a watery eye?  Anemones heliotropic messengers of the iron coil heart of the earth?

 

 

 

The electromagnetic revolution has transmuted axioms from within the alchemists womb.   

 

 

Razors rain through the vagabonds eyes.

 

 

And it is apparent;  all through damnation,  the word has been spoken:  the great magician Houdini has escaped the Hell of Creation.

 

 

Celebratory monologues of improbable vowels pool on the vagabond tongue.

 

 

Thirty six million gods arrive in clouds like untamed hearses.

 

 

The  vagabond speech touches the wings of a falcon adrift on a warm city thermal.

 

 

Entire histories coalesce in this human eye.    Opening and closing. Opening and closing.

 

 

I can sense the memory of Chinese peasants spilling up through the sidewalk from twelve thousand miles under my feet.

 

 

And then; it occurs.   The blue light of twelve thousand photons catches itself on a cat's spindling whisker.

 

 

It is the rarefied consciousness of the Spiritual Daredevil.

 

 

Orpheus laughs in Manhattan.   Fiction has ascended in the bloodstream of man.

 

 

Under the blue photon curl, a wave of indeterminate beginnings searches itself for proof of it's own non –existence.

 

Heaven trips down a series of prayers lost like phantoms on the desert Queen's mouth.

 

 

It is not chaos.  It is not order. 

 

 

It is the endless array of mystery becoming that which is unknown in it's own impossible being.

 

 

Three businessmen cloak themselves in cologne and smoke.   Their teeth are golden like Achilles eyes.

 

 

I chase perpetual midnight through their central nervous systems.

 

 

With each footstep, evolution destroys itself. 

 

 

Algorithms of paradox elope through the  honeymoon of a space time recursion.

 

 

The scene is a fool's eden of images lost in images gained. 

 

 

Phantasmagoric curvatures ripple on windowpanes full of faces disguised masked by flesh and photon.

 

 

Blueness!  Vague triangular madmen clutching the bodies of rats as if they were heat seeking missiles.

 

 

A purse full of meaningless baubles explodes like the tongue of a liar. 

 

 

Children flock toward the beaches of the psychic Armageddon.

 

 

A single word escapes from the dictionary.    I dissolve in the Vagabond's smile.

 

 

It suddenly occurs to me that I no longer exist.  Rumors lick the wounds of dying egos.

 

 

I surrender to vague notions of individualism.

 

 

From the depths of Nazi Berlin,  I hear my Grandfather howl the antichrist's name.

 

 

In some unquiet antechamber on the edge of the pacific ocean, the stained glass windows are shining with the echoes of Picasso's childhood fevers.

 

 

Under moons emblazoned with astronaut footprints,  twelve Japanese angels

perform Kabuki in the Chinook vortex that has sent a million eyelids into the ballet of closing.

 

 

Opening and closing. 

 

 

Primary colors trickle through the soul.  The spectrum is incomplete, the Owl remembers nothing.

 

 

A new fire--- neither smoke nor light; neither eye nor skin.   It erupts between the atoms.

Quark sings opera in the theatre of silence.