all a'swoon in the peptides of our ivory
like mastodons marching delicate
or mountains of mayhem as a virtue.
an undesigned design
etched into the sphere of heaven
at the base of your skull
where the jewels to be found there
yammer the light fantastic
like sheets of chrome foam
through a funnel made of mint mist
and delusions of -
candor.

we mark the cave with our cellphone ping
and reap the things in the dark
that could brighten any room.
we have a knack for the impossible
but seldom sell glass beads to mermaids
we live in the kingdom of bent.
so therefore, the fork in the road is inevitable
and your utter lack of choice
a most universal thing.

songs will be sung about how we lived -
on the head of a pin... mending the fabric
of our isolation, and stitching the seams
of our bold stripes... where the whip cracked
and seared it's angry tongue across the back
of our forward thinking.
too engrossed are we, in the journey itself
to ever regain conscience.
we boil at room temperature. and we buy things -
that eat souls,
and have no word for snow -
that can also mean " cherry blossoms commit suicide"
and we sleep in the barn.

where haystacks bed down with stars
and you can still pick a lock
with a paper clip.
where all applause from the void-
visit like rain, all thunderous and good China
tilting on a blade of hope
in the very wheat fields of our daily bread
in the meadows of our irony.
where we salt the earth and continue to crop stones
in the spirit of our palace
wrought from years in exile
stacked to the roof of God's Mouth.
so He stutters your name
as clear as a bell.

and we shan't be consumed by surprise.

we will beguile.