Accepting quantum fuzziness and discreteness,

u-h-d allows the idea of seeing one thing is not the other,
über aber ich weis nicht

focus, this is spiritual, not religious, this is inner-bubble space,
pick a hat, here's a Dumbo feather

… "and called it macaroni."

A line forms an ancient meme, in the Spirit of America,
dancing children singing and waving tri-colors,
performing grammar school maypole pageants
in conjunction with the ashtorothean rites called passion,
feeling earth warm to the dance of our
sowing of the seed, celebrate, the coming of the sun
to the appointed time as time is measured
on the stone that bhers witness to our we formed spirit.

We are walkers along the spiral, twisting this way then
to that once,
you felt me make a point you felt was your tic to on point,
alert,
predictions pile in unverifiable belivable, but easy to believe,
life is good, in terms of essential being, elemental preceptions

glimpse of something super-semantic tic super symmetrick

not having seen hell, from the perspective of the conqueror,
leaves any weapon fit to fight the reality hell forms
unique,
unlike any weapon as yet imagined better, truth as a concept
any mind may form to hold,
from holding nothing, as a thought, then in a word caught
as thought
think this is the trick to quantum being, be
a bit.

See how it does feel to be real, ah, as in Wings of Desire,
I knew I did not suffer through that film in vain.

Anthro-poor-morphed angels imagined as unread messages,
felt where good is the only thing ever
felt real,
as real as any angel's kiss, but just a kind word heard, as thought.

Iodine damnation cleanses Alice--rock-and-roll medusa
                                              alone in the field,
she waits for the flies to eat the spider
                 --the third testament of law
                                                   divinely christened as low as $19.95.
                  Hell is where
       Schrodinger throws the bodies. Revived Alice is in a burlap sack
            embedded in the cubbyhole
            of a mortal anthro-rubix,

    the small garnishes that spot livers during cancer.
                         "Hello and welcome
             to the resting place of all Blues songs."
     speaks the curbed lips of Gluttony. A name that vomits
            up rebellion, like cleansing the glucose off
   fish-cleaning tables.

   Alice touches her eyes                                       rolls them
                                                                        --fortunate galleries,
broods deeply on the jaws of her receptors.
                    "After the last drop, the hard boiled spoil
and the cats won't eat 'em. Neither will I," Gluttony spews, "You all show up
                    as do I, magnifying the cruelty of digging,
                                                                             digging,
                                                                             digging
                                                 that follows me and you to the bitter stem
                                                  and rough petal--throwing this rose,
                                                                                                that rose,
                                                                            here and there inside the carcass of lust.
                                    The scalding photograph of a guerrilla war playground
                                                                                   hangs over
                                                            the mantle of a prideful garden.

        "Pulp wisdom
         looking back at the names of thieves/murderers
                                                       of simple thought
                                over-turning scars of fallacy
                                         in that garden.

            "Picking,
             picking,
             picking out the best arrangement
                           so it doesn't look like I went
                                                                         through a drive-thru
                           for what to say.         'Hey.'
                                                               'Yes?'
                                                                'I love you.'
                                                                'You too.'
                                                   Something in between
                                             what you, I, and the others were looking for
                                            has uprooted bushes--the tilled chest of my sister
                                                                   and lover--disarrayed, dirt thrown
                                                                                                         to the side.
                                            Fibonacci colors patterned
                                                                        across the moist earth
                                                      to distract you and I, all from the dread, and all
                                                                                 the relief
                              of ripping apart the white, pink, black, and red."