the INLAID EAR

I had an Armageddon dream. The terrible explosion nearby sent its heat-maddened shrapnel scudding from a cloud like a decorative bottle. City center transformed into a great candle. Then the mind’s innate drive toward its own survival shifted the dream’s setting into a new panel. In this segment, I was recording the prior end-of-days scenario into my journal. This dreamself explored the symbology of fire in futures untouched by the Ragnarok fractal. In the later dream, I told you of the terror we felt standing in the hot hail of the world’s fall, now passed into the safe angst of a dream’s prior dream; but your face fell, and fell away, the final bell of the morning’s first alarm. I want to call life a blessing, shadows and all. But today, you’ll please treat me to your soft voice and a tender smile. Truth is, I'm not sure about this poem, but I so love the drawing by Heather Wilcoxon .

Art by the amazing Hearther Wilcoxon Who wept at the romance     for Ginsberg and so for Solomon The moon yacketayakking, all over the street, danced on boxcars. Boxcars racketing over the rooftops. Storefront Moloch, whose ear is smoking, wandered around and around seeking jazz or sex or soup, trying to giggle, but wound up with a sob—animal soup intelligent and shaking. The archangel of the soul will never return your soul, faded out in vast sordid movies. Holy Istanbul vanished into nowhere Zen. Midnight streetlight smalltown rain ended fainting on the wall.