Summon-mad incense goes out searching

for a transcendent nervous system,

taking on different qualities.

A serpent lies coiled under a Golden

Helmet, that's made of depthless return.

Sleep is different, it is no longer where

waking comes from.

Waking is different, it is no longer where

sleep comes from.

Light lays down rising.

Sometimes eyes open up there, & a

depthless return shows one the figure

of its speech.

It is not the body.

Post meridem traffic, tightened

congestion--breaks whined like

dogs sounding high pitch

frequencies.

A screen protector discarded on

tousled grass--unevaporated dew

droplets set as Wallpaper.

A fitting tension, sort of like

car pooling.

Sunsets are eminently confronting,

they're second to last page epics that ask:

'Were you a part of what went down?'

As entropic & inertial forces hash out the

unlived, concurrent with an insatiability

that pleads passion.

Trusting that your passion's retreating

with those pastels--that you could &

would die, but not just yet.

It's like the psychiatric intake of a patient

that's kept from creating, their ******

need the same as sunset's cry wolf

apocalypse.

It's like fighting to stay awake for

something indispensable to your being,

that whatever's underneath sunset must

match up.

Otherwise it'll feel like glimpsing

sleep-prompts while wearing synthetic

skin.

It is only surface succor--one should spit

out the passifier & eat grass!

A ravenet nods & bristles ebon--negative

two thousand & twenty-five years thru

its scryed vision.

Gone before: 'Be gone!', therewith a

daemon at the ready.

Wraps roots around treetops, as a Garden

burries its Sky.

Flower wind spinners act as galactic

corkscrews, hypnotic wind of

clockwise-counterclockwise rotation.

Dialing in to a split, that the daemon

unhypnotizes, which turns into a green

jello synthesis.

Its genius of holism added unto.

The charming prosody of atmosphere, is

metered by the daemon.

As plastic table cloths flap & paper plates

flip--the ravenet clacks its beak.

A soothing habit it visits when

atmospheres & Ages commingle.

An oval daguerreotype window scene,

bordered by frost on a blistering day.

A white horse juts its jaw, as it receives

freedom's lash.

Whose distance is already satisfied.

G-force grins bear its large teeth at the

diplomacy of elements.

Below the frigid shade of bridges built

over deserts, eight kicks pace to the

torsoed toss of sand.

No more than a whole in want, spooked

by unbroken thunder shaplier than its

pounding hooves.

Its stomach distends with a flood of gas,

glugging to combustibility.

As it catches fire's metaphor, igniting

catch-me-if-you-can fingers all over it.

While night repudiates night, to where

passage is way behind, or way ahead  of

brilliances inconsistently ticking above.

In sound there is time, in time there is

distance--here there is no telling.

Just a white horse eating a purple carrot

out of a poet's hand.

Pan's pipes lift, as Syrinx passes off

a river.

When the wild is put out again, canting

a vaporous red--a metallic hitch thrusts

wet wood.

Rupturing stones & married dust shun

shoots, taken in by a full revolution.

Their beat back glow mimes blooms,

a faint vision for a clear one--Pan's

hoary notes.

It's well to lie down in the dimly

remembered--to sign out its cross.

There without moving, coming back--

as from passed what one can see to.

Spread out & up against, there where

the hallowed becomes.

Marked by fire's burnished throne,

not to be succeeded.