Is a crystal
feathering here
moth-burrowed vellums
gather insouciantly
down its long corridor
Piano music and wet skin
frame cavernous dreams
rendered cataracts
Glass blossoms hewn without ceremony
Colour unmade,
stippled from
from lasciviousness
darning a subaqueous ladder of hues
,flashes transcendentally
Imagined 'scapes form vagrant kingdoms
where stile and crooked bough
along sinuous tracts
linger inchoate
charming the eye
Discarding tarragon cellophane
chrysanthemum beads
for loose chimes
their scented aria
through exiguous fronds of breath
lovers throb in timbreless delirium
A pale offering exhumes the dusky path beyond
scabrous lots disembodied
windless
The night is a phoenix
pruning the billows of Time
caught between meadows
lighted by gems.
Gossamer lashes
told off in a whisper
shielded by thorns
coruscating with serendipity
opalescent
mephitic
Amid velvet Pleiades
Karma unwinds Her long tress
a clockwork of downy ribands
Mantled gowns probe deepening thoroughfares
held aloft through wordless reverie
—toiling in the wind
adumbral
frenetic
Abaddon at the crests of Her polished heels
teakwood-scented azure
pinholes darken the firmament
Corybantic florae adjure
streamlined vagrancy
behind windswept cinctures
terraced eyes
The ether is detuned
sophistic
anklets of rufescent brume
peregrinating maladroitly without
A clepsydra
gathering mercury
Blackened phials
litter verboten escarpments
in strains of bygone prowess
whose tranquil hymn
lay confused among the stones.
This is not about all of the morons whom would be 'living in a jar'
that any true Justice should prevail on Earth
Not about the fine line that civilized people must articulate
between Justice and the execrable
This is not about Oprah
Or what she wears or what she does or how she feels
Nor is this an indictment of the aforementioned iconic television personality
It's not about a viral span of recorded footage whose precipitate fame is largely attributable to the untimely misfortune of a would-be stunt person
This is not about how easy it is to divert the attention of most individuals for one minute and fifty-three seconds
Not about the limitations of an evolved humanity
It's not about the social network that brought down a station wagon full of despots
Or the busload of Hectors-in-waiting whose heretofore listless careers experienced a decided reversal of fortune as a result of those rather odd upheavals
It's not about fictitious primates or sea-dwelling abominations
Nor how much time, financial support, and personnel are squandered each year that fools might study them
It's not about convincing the average idiot that incontrovertible evidence does not typically restrict itself to eye-witness accounts and film of dubious authenticity
This is not about the time 'All hell broke loose' at your cousin Bradley's flute recital
Or how many parishioners and assorted clergy it eventually took to coax sister Helen down from a nearby tree
This is not about a heartless tramp that murdered her own child and then skated like Tony Hawk
Nor the horrid tribulations visited upon those whom bear the misfortune of closely resembling her
It's not about the skull-fucking migraine that prevented you from attending work one summer afternoon
Not about the uncharacteristically poor golf outing that succeeded its untimely remission
This is not about your boyfriend's sister's teacher's cousin's coach's rescued greyhound
Nor the utterly hilarious capers he was known to cut of a weekend barbeque
It's not about hash tags, dishrags, or scallywags
It's not about the kidney that you stole to cover your sister's gambling debt
Or the new respect for the utility of needle nose pliers that was acquired perforce
This is not about a society that allows rapists and child molesters out of prison with their genitalia intact
It's not about the perennial advice of your least favourite blood relation
Nor its unerring capacity to sequester your attention at the most inopportune juncture
This is not about how many of you will be under surveillance while reading this
Not about a paranoiac vision of an all too dystopian present
It's not about the guy selling cocaine out of the next apartment
Or the rather singular times that you had at his impromptu social gatherings
This is not a soul-rending drama of passion and betrayal inspired by actual events
It's not about perpetuating ineffective psychotherapeutic methods until one's book has gone into its fourth printing
This is not a revolution
Nor would it be televised if it were
It's not about how fast it took a quartet of hungry men to devour a truckload of hotdogs
Or how long it took for a puree of said meat product to litter the concrete beneath them
This is not about the gluttony of a dying world
This is not about to end.
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