of growing chimney flutes after all just words
demarcating the borderline between territories
of the wild and the dominions of plasteel
it's not real until we've dreamed it from
whole cloth it's like patenting silence
or advocating violence for the maintenance
of peace or standing back from the natural
cycle of events at least to allow their total
scope to spread out before our eyes and keep
the process unfolding beneath our feet
as we surf down the in-pouring double helix
torus wave flipped half way inside out into
the flesh awoken or some times shut pupils
arising on time eyelids quite open masters asleep
with their lids very lowered and all of their sentences
stolen and copied and stored in separate directories
pasted away within the deepest most impenetrable
dungeons of memory ever devised by humankind
the fortress of digital information withheld
in electrical thralldom as the sanctuary upon
which the common man could be hung once
again as in the days of old when dragons bled
and licked their wounds with virgin's shed
skins kept as the softest rags a lord could have
to buff a perfect shiny left knuckle horn with
or to wipe away the jeweled encrustation
forming behind the tear duct of one bleary eye.
So why, O why is our vision so blurry
as to startle our outlook examining a slurry
of unbridled matter once upon succumbing
to a star almost always expressing itself in
a fountain of electrostatic gestures
continuing the cursive message across
the void's inherent disassimilating solution
offered before us amid the cyclonic cauldron
in our solar system of the cup held up
for us from which to drink clean water
from the starlight of our manifesting dream?
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