Negotiating the Stairwell to the Monkey's Attic

I saw Eternity the other night, like a great custodian’s ring threading a thousand keys. Which one unlocks the steel door between social unrest and moral exemplars hovering like horseflies? Which one unlocks the talismanic inscription that malignly affects the nervous system, fragging neurons with Siegfried’s Funeral March, the acoustic cover with which your pebble-punctured soles must one day deal? Lebensraum does not exist outside the mind, the political sphere emblazoned with the name Nestor. Objective time, however, is at once infinite and bound to be free of HIV three years after a stem cell transplant. The Mall Kiosk Man juxtaposes a sylvan glen with industrial alienation. He placed a blue glass jar of fireflies in Tennessee, and round it was a sea of blue grass like unto the crystal blue Shekhinah clad in her white kimono. Sometimes—late at night, when the air grows clammy—she experiences a feeling of self-fulfillment, knowing that she has yet to succumb to the advances of him whose existence is implied by an imperfect universe. Knowing, I mean, that those grainy photos of UFOs are merely frisbee’d hubcaps configured into a chain of rhetorical utterances, causal connections ending at the crack rock in her sock drawer. When the gobo puppet proposed to Bob Dylan, it gave way to the postmodern model of Christian charity sparknotes. One subatomic quark, indivisible, drove off a cliff and landed smack on the harvest moon. However, as the tits say, “Life goes on, bra.” Betty Boop keeps bubbling with bright ideas; balls keep hitching rides to the sweet spot. And yes, my loyal, albeit ever-dwindling, orange popsicle poppy account, the collisions are duly noted by Geiger counters. Through successive rebirths the soul purges itself of its neon green and purple blotches, its blooming confusion of colors.



Alleys in Wonderland

Let me trek across the glow around the organpipes as I submerge them. Three vortices of prismatic smokestacks and Texas toast transformed under the neon where spiraea sucks down dolphins for blue motorcycles. When I smother the leopard, my diamond in the memory sails. Phosphorous has also scoured weirs, figure 8s that shoo wandering radios. The aria: a turbulent slaughterhouse of hypodermic walkingsticks, exquisite shrapnel, a crag's pleistocene brocade.

Derelict-manometered. Pine trees excoriate. When I wrench out the ephebe in the honeycomb, my magpie gurgles and my iguanas bloom. I genuflect before my jeep, a merry-go-round for jeepers. Spangle us with thunderheads from the Chinese laundry.

An armada is crimsoned by minotaur music. The skirmish. All the way down. Under my detritus are chirruping ghinkos. Who would churn a striped swamp with embroidered boardwalks.

Let me wrack mosques with binary cascades as you gnaw the frayed fire-escape. Infinite crosswords ripple as plankton ripples in outer space. The fangs of the floe are tumescent on a primeval streetlamp such as this one. Hug tigers, she says, hug tranquil cropdusters from Stockholm. You pee "under the tumult of the shaggy paperplay" into the snow casino, then stipple the ozone to make deadwood hopscotch.