I am a romantic, I conjecture, to become sunny.
Many have fasted, but few have changed natural desire.
Flower children are turning onto my street.
Sit down, man of much anxiety,
the choir is celebrating your birthday in the solarium.
Your gifts are coming on the boat sailing far
into the methods sponsored by the world's greatest teacher.
Foolproof induction is a shade darker than implicit renewal.
Give thanks to the crew's service on the edge of happiness.
I am a fool for new life sprung from the worries of a household.
Parnassus smites a century's madness.
The choir shines in the light year.
The refrain travels miles into the kitchen.
The mouse washes the dishes with sunlight.
The master is satisfied that the new century has begun.
Mixed media breaks from the charcoal into the rainbow.
In a dream, mixed media meets gravity.
The dream breaks into toothpicks connecting the nights.
The complete ending is seen as a flash at the end of time.
The stars fall. They try to stand.
They cannot stand because of their massive weight.
The stars lie prostrate before the screen. Their names
are ending in earrings.
The dude watches the stars sparkle between trust and an objection.
The afternoon man struggles with an aphorism
in his coffee cup from Antonio Machado.
The fraction of his style repeats in his head. His dream decays
into a dwarf. Then William Blake resurfaces.
He draws the war into true prophecy
pregnant with the approaching hour.
The rain is misting on the fortune teller's face.
I step into a history cut until the very last moment.
The moon is in the branch of a tree.
The black lines of my drawing
are only carefully composed handwriting.
The first angel doubles as blind man as last resort.
I ingest the insect wings on paper skin of books.
On my clothes, on my skin the paper buzzes.
The literature feeds the noise of my breathing.
A face seldom featured judges beauty. My smile dies
into the theatre of his taste. An unknown man doubts gold.
A magician sifts through the deficiently manic.
A cowboy breaks the momentarily happy.
The union of impulse and honesty rocks us to sleep.
We acknowledge our vertigo with a touch of indifference.
Forget the righteous time and place. Peer into an unformulated face.
Tell him or her that salvation is coming from across town.
The parade is turning onto your street, your musical street.
Spring from the pages of mystery.
The revolving door between logic and magic
terminates the Artist's escape.
The Artist bugles his image into our defense.
He focuses his logic into our will.
He schools our imagination to race through possibilities.
The currents of reason are escaping our enjoyment.
We bluff looks at books, fly about the market,
and ape the aptitude test. Our success is food for history.
Walk with the sound that moves
in secret with the sunlight procession.
Coordinate with the evanescent sound of production.
Shout out the invention of speech balloons.
Impressions of my past are collecting on a cliff.
A magnet pulls me over the edge.
My continent brushes the tide. A splash of recognition
pushes my discovery into the age.
I land in the sand next to an endless revision.
The treasure hunters find the heroes.
The characters in our den
are leaving the corridor of congruent pride.
Be in league with their floats and flower children.
They dig the scenario playing out at the coast.
Water babies curl into bonnets.
Their ebb and flow is evident in the company's smallest office.
Their mature selves walk the hallway of the human machine.
They instruct the drafting of eyesight and earshot.
The advantage of our machine is its division into parts.
The rich are suppressed in the sound of their arrival.
The machine acts brother to the poor.
They surf the stockholder's share of comedy and tragedy.
Legends spring from the turf and walk stealthy on the green.
They are the untaught victors of the revolution.
The misfits spiral ever closer to the core.