Far off, a ray of light
Spirals like a stairway down which hooded acolytes
Are bearing a virgin to a subterranean altar.

A dagger plunges like a neckline
Into the curtain of iridescence behind which
You’re cloistered in a cave stalagmited with candles.

All lightning-gerrymandered night–blowzy-
Haired, wearing an African mask that makes you
Look like a demoiselle d’Avignon–you juggle

Several psychedelic vans atop the garage.
Jettisoned from that eminence you plunge
Headlong into the chipper, which spews yr soul.

Disembodied you float thru rooms
Bereft of butterflies, flit from fragrance to fragrance,
From the evanescent scent of periwinkle blue

To that of monkeyflower orange–float thru rooms
Where the chain of gypsy moths is stretched so taut
You can rope-walk it. You can read palms, tea dregs,

Searchlight the loons & lepers là-bas
With yr luminary eyes. Thru an old bemossed wall
You can see a deep ditch brimming with mannequin limbs

That combust cats by caressing them in rooms
Where, stricken by The Plague, you see yr face
On an unwanted poster, see yr lips

Loose The Litany, where after rain you open
The shutters to sprouting mushrooms, to a spiral
Galaxy of sunflowers. Syncretic,

The chocolate walrus alchemizes disparate
Oddments into a mosaic. In rooms where you’re
Swathed only in lightning’s incandescence the glass

Bells of funktionslust knell, invoking the de Chirico-
Esque statues who are entranced by yr tattoos.
Far off, Emma Peel’s catsuit languishes

In an abbey; the overcoat whose boardinghouse reach
Exceeds its grasp shackles the incorporeal
Women who smell of cicada song, who don

Poker personae. Far off, a giant woodpecker
Hollows a chopstick in order to sip the elixir
From a cat’s dish; the sphincter is loosened, the weir

Dynamited; the music of a pipe organ
Wafts from a cathedral, snowplows the tarpaper shack
Where I laze in a cigarette haze. The apparition

Of a subterranean starfish bewitches me
In rooms where Muzak vents spew India ink–
Black flashback to a drowned wharf rat from the Dukkha

Funeral Parlor boarding a carnival train
That burrowed into a hermetic dream of eyesockets,
Asylums for spiders. In rooms where we’re safe from the lava

Creeping down the corridor, nothing but a noose
Of cigarette smoke could snap me out of the Circean
Spell of yr morose blue eyes, the gravitational

Pull exerted by yr black-hole pussy as you
Sleepwalk in dishabille in the starlit graveyard
Far off, where airplane hangars unfurl like flowers

Of corrugated steel from which droves of dwarves
Beeline down the freeway, where peepered skulls
People the firmament. After a day of moiling

I creep, torpid, to rooms where I behold
My lady fair thru skydiver-hewn fog,
Where over a cup of sludge I dream up castles

Too resplendent to be humanly wrought. Far off,
Slums beckon me; in rooms where I can crawl
Out the window to a fire escape that zigzags

Down to an alley I sound the depths of my
Unconscious for a low-ebbed memory:
The noise of Hitchcock’s The Birds wafting from

A sewer grating. In rooms where the torpor of tor
Is dunked in embalming fluid I’ll be my next
Incarnation: Eraserhead. Smothered

In the catarrh of otherness I’ll commingle
With burglars who are hoping Night will deal them
A hand of black windows: an empty house.

Nothing will come of nothing, busload
After busload of nothing; “but if the nothing is nothing,”
Heidegger says, “then beings can never founder

In the nothing” as in black milk. Far off,
The overnight bag–the black box from a crashed
Crow–blazes. From rooms where I’m outroduced

To my dotage my mind gallops away with me
On its back thru a winding hall of mirrors
To rooms where I taste music like des Esseintes.

Velvet-tipping tongues toll–steeples
Beseeching me to flee deeper into darkness
With a comet’s tail like the train of a sumptuous cloak,

To zoom into rooms where every objet d’art
Catches hellfire from a match, shines import
Into the meaning of the obsession to which

All my thoughts are circumscribed; sheriff badges
Cartwheel out of the stellar nursery, into
The icehouse where they become malleable.

In rooms where I’m Rolfed by my counterpart
From a parallel world the nuclear coffin leaks
Its radioactive counsel: noose yrself

With a feedback loop in a March-hare-brained room
Shrinking like “The Pit and the Pendulum.” Far off,
The simoom soughs; the Bridge of Sighs bifurcates;

The wine-moist lips of the garbage truck–the nexus
Of compaction–part. Under yr purple tresses
The thoughts coralled in yr skull whinny & stamp…