Only fiascos could be made from this sand, but the dolphin madrigal is sublime. The surf recedes to disclose curios–quarks you cobble together to create the medina I wander, earwig lost in a labyrinthine ear canal. Beloved, my Piper hand plies your tarmac thigh. You rove the desolate moors with Emily Brontë’s dog, contemplating the curious sublimity of being fucked with a pearl-handled revolver, preferably in a haunted greenhouse. Moby Dick attacks the Pequod–whacks her with a rusty bike chain. A dark romance with a flagellant imbues everything with obscure portent. Bees nest in our deepening eyebags. Roil the sediment of nostalgic memories: soon my thoughts are turbid with B-sides, B-movies, muzzy mid-70s flicks that induce a mood as dark as dirty bongwater. Filter my thoughts through an alembic. Engorged with black bile I’m sucked into the maelstrom of the bacchanal. Sundays people go to church; Moondays should be for revelry. O ascetic reverist, an American Spirit would spur your dopamine to a lope; a rainy day woman would tuft you with tusks. I love wildly tangential poetry. I love to play slide rainbow with Hendrix’s Zippo: crash-test dummies dance as to strident music striding from a dead-cat accordion. Like a cat I creep off by myself; soon I’m lost in the rorschach, maundering with haunted eyes, rooting around in dumpsters. I find my deepest self with a dissecting scalpel; it levitates & glides away, a luminous blue hitodama. A pareidoliac, I see faces in the moon–that of the Electric Landlady extolling the submissive paradigm, crayoning migrating flocks of crayfish on old vellum with a selvedge of char. I’m charmed by shards of darkness racing helter-skelter into space, blackscatter in a sky where owl kites scowl down on a town bristling with derelict buildings. A black Clockwork Orange derby drifts, windborne, from the blacksmith hammering Black Forest cake to the herd of kettles grazing on a lake. At the Wailing Wall grackles cackle: pour a swirl glass of the Green Fairy for every lover of the sensual. Victorian hippies put loon pants on the legs of pianos. The root of all suffering is failure to apprehend your at-oneness with the universe. Snip the hawsers & the clippership is free, incandescent with joy. A wave of ecstasy surges through me when I see a sleeping dragon of demonstrators up-rising & down-falling on dragonfly wings. Veins mullion the wings into quarrels through which I see jackals scavenging in the rain. The tears of lugubrious clouds efface what is chalked on the Wailing Wall, gobbledygook about the dialectical tension between loving & loathing; now you have a tabula rasa. Doubt propels faith the way asterisks spur a sentence to a gallop–or, failing that, the ponderous gait of an armadillo bound for crepuscular solitude. Nimbused with oilskin-yellow construction paper, the skull soliloquizes into the void, divining the future. A buzzard is brooding a clutch of liquid-paper clouds for aeromantic purposes. She keeps noodging me to kill her in some gruesome way–says she wants to be shorn of her head by a wreckingball. Says her head keeps wearing a black velvet Mad Hatter hat adorned with wildebeest horns. Says her head keeps hallucinating aerial circuses, subterranean rainbows. Says her head’s full of ideas as tenuous as the main drag zigzagging through a ghost town, dead-ending at a vast lichen tundra.