1

Cracked egg, like the overgrown forest from your hands as they plunged through the fertile soil, composed mainly of disregarded shoes, fermented rice hats and spread-eagled cheese-board passenger seats. The Joshua trees were fertile, and they put anchors in between your ear canals.

The touches of fingertips on the threatening windows broke open the splendor of evacuated office spaces. Your cute smile contrasted with the seriousness of librarian oxygen masks.

I spoke with the city in the same way hands can slap a coffee pot, signaling great music and reincarnated feelings who shudder underneath french-fry heat lamps. This mischievous determination led me to lick your eyelids, frequently giving illusions of blue-lined oyster beds with the sacredness of sniffing socks and the specialness of a “meow” printed on back of a chair where a flow of feelings condenses into a wet tear, or perhaps a stream of saliva, or maybe even something else.

An anticipation of glances, the alpha and beta of your touch, as if the best things in life come in pairs and sometimes even threes. The spines of cactus reach impossible conclusions as if the air could become a sharp prism and cut the tentaclian bonds of international guilt and condensation of bordered soil with polka-dot pansies.

I still know of the “meow” on the back of the chair. It calls me to an antique lobster-phone, where I call on the advice of ancestors.

The “meow” says it all, and I look to you, through your eyes to the edges of a blue infinity. You hold me captive in the desert sands of a storm-drenched forest, where the hike to freedom is a stream of rainwater to be wrung from a feline bandanna, falling onto the pillow, living in your safety for the moments of eyelashes, spanking the tail of your poetic eminence, your presence on a frost-bitten taiga.

Your face is the liberation of sound, the silent trees that never get heard within an empty forest. The maze of glances and words is astounding. I am proud to know your shoelaces. We carve walking sticks from birch trees. I peel the birch bark and smell the fragrance of the earth, similar to the burning plant oils that are aromatic as they are incumbently denied the light of day, locked within the vault of your brain.

The wind blows the sands of night aside. Brushed aside, the lifted sand reveals stone-steps made of moonstone, with captured light sandwiched between sheets of smooth silicon. These steps lead downstairs. For you and you alone, I am the crab-cracking superman, as I nervously hold my service pistol, cautiously casing the contaminated mansion, playing games with secret doors and eyeing the spent shell casings with a little bit of fear. Was that a knock at the door?

Pulling blue weeds from crevices, the nesting crabs import crayons from chrysanthemums, spilling the ink of night across your beautiful brow. Should such magic be contained or allowed to migrate across the fragrant threshold of the seated timber, the locus of the “meow” chair that was to become the seat of a desired woman’s psyche, nestled amid a periwinkle pressure dialectic?

Radiostatic. Memories from a dark cube of distant buttons. Now, your presence within the doorway, the shadow from tomorrow. Your dark, forest hair upon the pillow. Your extended leg to block my passing, you tease you. If you dropped a pink hat of pool-cue felt upon the table, the world would be reduced to a metallic icon that could be placed within the “meow” nexus, similar to the process by which an emerald of sentimental value is clasped by silver prongs.

Such riches are fearsome, or possible foursome, with the multiplication of length by width to create a meiotic sporulation protein, as if such things existed within the buds of a belt-looped street, with stolen furniture from agricultural condom-iniums.

The drifting of damp magnolian pink identification with the green, as if lizards could hear the tear-throbbing beat of steel drums that spoke only to you of the breeze that felines feel when the wind blows between their clawed toes. I search the beach at night for you. Trembling, you pull up the lobster trap only to find a Styrofoam telephone hidden within the chicken wire. A telegram sends messages from the bottom of the sea, relaying the passage of a boat under a bridge. The hang-up occurs underwater.

Freud’s brother stepped on the wheezing machine, the only gem in the desert. The reformation of pictures. You are a black cat sitting on a purple satin pillow.

 

2

Asphalt carrion skyscrapers. The worship of stale ideas? Serendipitous forgiveness as evidenced by a wax trail from inside a green bottle of mystery. Honeycomb discoveries mutate within the eye cavities, waiting for something to emerge.

…

Putting tresses upon support poles. Dragging out the tools that were used forever upon your eyes, in the way a sigh is forwarded to a bunny cavern that is from a deserted church in Monterey. The trek of madness across meetings, reminiscing of that long night of forgotten pathways through deserts by uncertain moonlight. A pair of high-heels is followed by a transformation into black boots, with a red top, worn by someone who can pull eyes out of leaves, and then leaves out of her eyes. She understands fish and chips, but then she also knows about the telephone booths of a pair of lips lingering by a Victorian staircase, inserting files into empty orphanage rooms. This mix of cat paws leaves a mysterious trail of forgotten sighs, now hidden by dusty unknown walls in a dusty corridor of your archives. The thighs mutate and an elbow beneath the sheets emerges. Salamanders understand these things, but not the crows.

The fishhooks attach to the outstretched telephone microphone, putting the weird coffee cups beneath eyelids, making a silly, monetary countdown of something that could have been mythological. The dangers of modern feelings and attachments. There is uncertainty within these leaves now, and autumn is a stomach-ache with stepped on bananas and disintegrating brassieres.

A monument of cross-roads makes the feline observant blush, casting the nebular hairline fracture into a trimester turkey-leg. Character armor? Did the butler do that? What could have been the purpose of a symphonic trombone made of onyx, with the chiseled inscription of “murder mystery dinner”? Could a mystery within a lipstick-stained mystery generate unknown flowers of darkness? Apparently so. Such a planted seed by one of those nefarious willy-wallies from the south created unknown purposes stretched across virgin skeins, interlacing a dark, wooden totemic monument of crossroads-capability, solely illuminated by one candle, an old friend. This wooden corridor was exhilarating as it was kitten laughter, as it was the codename of alpha in one ear, and beta in the other. There were no other ways to express this movement of poof-hair musicality, in the way one looks down the stairwell to see a ray of light in the middle of a diamond smile, a sensual bulwark of feelings who dares to walk around with a comb of cheese within her hair. The delta of estuaries, is a salty crevice of normality, a derivation of cross-roads, in the same way a skull and crossbones is similar to the alchemy of crossed, panty-hosed legs covered with white power-boots, glued to the staircase in a timeless fashion assault, sending out a light-beam of “muah, muah” kisses that auto-spray-paints the uncovered foreheads with night graffiti, in an auto-reflexive, mirrored anti-contempt giggle that diffuses any stubborn sasquatch who kills houseguests for any lack of appetizer at hand. These sorts of regulations are purely sentimental, and can be found in any sports almanac of capitalistic flatulence.

Within your blue eyefolds of sacred gesticulation-grounds, you spin the bottle in the same way willy-wally culture unfolds like special socks import encrypted gasoline into your fishhook telephone receiver.

I am disturbed by these events that pour in from an internet raincloud of “I-don’t-want-to-talk-to-you” culture. This cris-crossing of horses leads one to the path of cactuses when they twist into vulture sediments that slowly drift down to the floor of television empires of airplane managers that know how to hoard empirical salad dressing bottles of the ways of overcoming your eyeglasses of glassblowing. I cannot fathom your smile, apparently. You fire my synapses, and put kalamata olives into symposium postures of knowledge dissemination, in a valley particular only to the landing of dog-eared crows.

The kill switch has been armed. Hair-colored panties line the staircases of the library of ages, the bow-tie conspiracy of festive attire in a summer fear of next-fear school buses where one stops on the way to haunted education, with the little children who want to stick knives into your leg when you try to give them a purpose in life, as if such pretentious goals could be easily transmitted like sexual diseases on a warm school session massage in the middle of the airplane desert, where the mile-high club celebrates its sordid cooking classes, whipping up delights that no cameras could ever fully grasp.

 

3

After the rage of ancient umbrellas, the forgotten shoes were thrown upon the farmhouse roof, lasting until the next tornado came through to carry them away in the marbled vortex of a sandaled foot, the sniffing of her socks in the winter breeze of a macaroni pair of glasses. A bed made of blue sky and purple grapes is the berth upon which the oil ship perched, sending out laundry lines of tweeting birds, sending pippi longstocking smoke signals into the heart of a giggle, on which the onyx gem rests on the pillow, contemplating the black-stockinged legs of an auto-reflexive mirror that self-reflects an eidetic caribou that symbolized only one letter of the alphabet at a time. No time for the gammadelt.

Oh but what about the turkeys that hide in the steep hills, guarding fossils that were once tissues for blowing noses and other organs? Could these footsteps have been the goose of frozen tree branches that hide the specter of Eskimo spectacles in the frozen wastes of winter? Would a bat’s wings begin to resemble those of a butterfly once the manure in the stable had been aged long enough to remove diamonds from the rough spots?

This line of questioning was not very remarkable, once it became certain that the butterfly was never from Idaho, but really from the biscuit factories of the ice ages, where princess crystals entertain mad thoughts within the labyrinths of icy sheets, pointing bony fingers at the sun and bellowing with pre-fab rage.

Was I being stalked? Could baubles of boggle release a hidden joy of linguistic licks, in the back room of a silken snake den? It was completely by surprise that the snakes persisted, in their efforts to colonize a honeycomb of preternatural glory, in a monument of fear that was a circle of mirrors reflecting the surprise of a strawberry morning with tussled hair and a discarded pair of glasses. A blue moon sidewinder is released from a defunct hour-glass, spilling the dance across a patterned wreathe of weaknesses cultivated from a glass eye of serpent tranquility. Possibly a recognizable path had been found, and yet your eyes became green lanterns to a portal through the walls, a reflection of a 70 pound mammoth that was still heavily armed but in a glass cabinet quietly guarded by raccoon lovers and other symbols of shotgun shell extravagance.

Hot baths might do the trick, in place of a sanctuary of the maritime blues and oranges of ocean hideouts, separated by a thin film of plastic, a moist barrier that kept wet from dry and eyes from legs. Even downloaded ephemera proceeded along dubious paths while the green lanterns bounced in the steamy dim light, soaking under hot waves and stroking the tips of erasers, knowing that this pencil secret in and of itself was enough to warrant a sharpener. But where exactly was that sharpener?

Possibly such a sharpener might exist beyond the reach of the eraser tips, and yet the call for the plume was sharper than a Formosan butterfly leaf-hat that certain luscious sillies wore during moments of levity and smiles, within the catacombs of blindfolded pleasures of blue silk, completely cut off from conventional reality and all of the other nefarious mistrust of the hens of the land. This mineral deposit was scooped up in the form of a lop-sided bunny with quivering whiskers and soft gloves that knew how to touch the tendrils of venus fly traps that grew among the blue moon wastes of the sidewinder’s lair, penetrating the dance of unknown nymphs and celebrating the eye-contact of a deja-vu radio which saw different people emerge from different songs, as if a person was no longer a radio but really an efflorescence of pristine almonds, glued to eyelids and sniffing the shoes of those who kept white puddles on red jackets. This sort of foolishness could not go on indefinitely, and a black cat slowly paced within her chamber of starlight, sending out a message that would be merged with the waterfalls of different continents.

The black cat was more than a carrot razor, and offered divine odors to the skies of azure sunsets, falling into the purple after the blue, and witnessing the setting of a burning orange sun in the distance. This fall of light upon the pillow necessitated further exchanges between night and day, cat and tail, and then moon with snake. The symbolist alchemy of starlit sequences created a magic potion that paved the way for a winding road for the blue moon sidewinder to follow, in search of the lost velvet steps of the black cat that chased its home of blue-sunset houses.

 

4

Venusian pinecones top the lost Lincoln-log cabins of futility, or perhaps feuilleton, with eggshells sliding down doorknobs covered with stretched condoms, all out in the middle of know-where. French vanilla beans sometimes get pork, even when blue moon lagoons gather the momentum of weighted marooned castaways who wander the beaches like sidewinders in search of cheese castles and kiwi fruit envelops who know how to touch a frightened bunny and make its tail rise. The anthem of songs is analogous to the flagpoles of risen festivities, and so coffee is poured into a woman’s sultry shoe. This concretion of ants and sugar is as basic as a grain of sand that is accidentally swept into the unwary eye, bringing on a surge of tears that bounces off pantyhose and ends up roosting like birds in forgotten mailboxes where the lichen grows on neglected metal and where rooftop excursions bring out the cuteness of white, outdoorsy rain-hats.

A mam’selle beaker is shifted to another shelf, where the earthquake narrowly avoids spilling the internal contents of the beaker. Painted on the walls were once faded icons of red birds, key-rings and dried fruits which have all become brains now, basically upside-down cherry brains which tingle with the pleasures of sardine jeans, spilling the hairy eagle harem into the blue and maroon trampoline, and releasing a frozen ice-cube from the glacier, allowing it to drift into the aether like a sub-antarctic sperm whale, ready for anything and certainly eager enough to bray at the moon.

Transformed wolves run like a pack, and fallen rainwater yearns to rejoin the mother puddle somewhere deep within the earth. The wolfen characteristics of pointed teeth, pointing eyes that touch the soft spots of creamy, white bunny-rabbits is more than enough for a decadent meal, with oozing cheeses and turquoise scarab pieces that rest on museum cushions covered with white fur.

Meanwhile, unseen hands press down on mayonnaise fishes, enabling the terrestrially bound fish to squirt a stream of mayonnaise from their mouths. This activity is not yet strong enough to cut through government bolts and screws, but enough at least, to disturb the backyard clotheslines which are nutritious to linguistic red birds who congregate by the urban fountains within the red and yellow-tiled habitations of humans, singing breezy songs of propaganda about nobody being left behind.

Quite different from the paralysis of mirrored watching and self-watching of otherly watching, the fairest of all mirrored mirror trees sprouts new wingtips which place a white hat on an unprotected head of blushing proportions, while the heartwarming smile rubs her ass into a chair of fur, stroking harmonicas, blowing notes and tickling the pathways to the blue sidewinder paradise of marooned sweatpants. If the sweatpants had been from any island, then the desert icecubes would have been like dried fruits at the bottom of a sink. But instead, because the seated passion chair was dragged into a closet, with nobody to sit on it, then the paint on the walls peeled with latex tears and the sniffles of dusty drapery and a three-dimensional sand-map soaked with urine.

Grandmother spider descends next to the ladder, pointing a kaleidoscopic beacon in the direction of a black satin lagoon, where the black rabbits roost together in the twilight, cooing within the upside-down cerebral cherry lightbulb, and releasing the red birds of song from the frightened castle of ribbed white gloves that lovingly powder the whiskers of the other, placing herself over him, completely ripe for the irreversible riptide.

 

5

When the forgotten stilts are discarded like foaming crutches in the corners of abandoned stairwells, where the symbolic snack-cakes of jellified youth are crushed like the bones of aquatic planets, then and only then will psychedelic weepy-trains be released from their derailing fears from sleeping passengers who might weep upon seeing the rising sun. This fear is completely justifiable and understandable from the perspective of wooden broom closets where captive prisoners wear deathmasks and are fed the last rights by way of crackers stained with ink and blood. The voodoo feathers that litter the bedrooms remind one of the shaky trails of skulls and crossbones that once lead to sickening mountain paths to unknown wastes of fear and spinal transformation.

The smile of a virgin white jacket girl suggests the emptiness of unfilled white boots that rest against the door of the closet, waiting to stalk the outside pavements of the walnut tree-fields where young schoolboys frolic, uninhibited, amid the laughing chants of the hypnogogic feline from black satin tranquility. This party atmosphere is conducive to these young studies of birthing solar flares and heavenly bodies moving through plastic avenues of plasma afterbirth, moving through the walls of transparent sugar and through the painted walls of binary hair braids. The studly spurs from the boots dig into the back, and white boots, white gloves of experimenting personnel create a hexagonal contrast to the woman of bathtub felicity, from wet, curly whiskers drenched with doughtnut glaze, to regional quarters of sleeping spiders whose silken corridors lead to places of lost knives and sunken ships, all completely filled with frozen droplets of blood suspended like jewels along the evil silken threads.

The blood droplets within the darkness stained the sheets,yet the feelings were absent, as if a bottle of the finest red wine were missing from the inside, without the usual decorking procedure that might have easily explained the passage of the evacuated fluid. In this particular case, the absent wine and the state of emptiness without proper decorking suggested an open need that went unfulfilled after renegade earrings are pierced through mango lobes of soft flesh. What was absent before, is now present, and the dart is filled with the most potent medicine, replacing the vacuous wine bottle dart, so thoroughly corked with emotional absenteeism and lustful but sadly 2-dimensional rhetoric.

For some minds, a collection of such darts was never really complete, as new varieties of emptiness were being discovered daily. However, the potent darts were extremely rare, and were rumored to grow on dart bushes, even though these supposed “dart bushes” had never really ever been seen before. Suddenly Alpha licked the end of Beta, and then Beta licked the beginning of Alpha. Such self-cycling surface patterns were incongruous within the purple flowers of artichokes that grew in the summer sun of Monterey, supposedly one of the best growing fields for experiencing summers, especially the love-currency of the preceding vernal equinox, analogous to the way paper drink umbrellas were burned by the thousands in the Buddhist cemeteries under Venetian bridges and through the pink lipstick of fishes that wore parsley hats and spent their days in spider-webbed store windows. Many-colored hats are expressions of laughter that ejaculate loving sentiments far better and well farther than any hallmark greeting card could.

So, rather than waste time collecting empty darts, it might be more generously advised that potent darts are sought, not only for their rooftop pinecones, but also for their white-jacketed, smiling beauty. Therein is the dialectical resolution: the empty dart abandoning itself in order to become a potent dart collection unto itself, completely empowered to kill even the most dangerous of dinosaurs!

 

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