I gazed down from the hill at the crisscrossing roadways and the vehicles whizzing in all directions, and tingled at the thought of so much indecipherable motion and intent, the patterns made by intersecting lives, the tender web of everything, seen and unseen.
Windowless corridors of the insect hotel
Lead inward, inward...
Winking voices of multicoloured stones
Hypnotized me on the barren plain,
And bird shadows frighten me into strangeness.
A coffin full of stars slowly lifts off the ground,
A mad boy holds up a wasp in a jar.
Thoughts drift like seahorses over a reef,
As you enter the luminous garden in silence,
And a hurricane of laughter passes over the land.
Dawn throws a twinkling coin into the air,
Angels escape from a shipwreck on the moon.
The beautiful idiot tunnels through mirrors,
Salamander mirrors where history
Explodes in a blank.
Martyrdom of consciousness mortgages my bones. I am a living relic of my own religion, a premonition of the past. I interpret the garbled language of things, the Proto-Indo-European roots.
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