Fixed Categories

Packed for courses of aggravation and joy, watching the light’s command a go-cup band waltz
down cobbled gutter trims and walks. Viridian deco-glam adventure, fluttered chests all into
the heart of genius. A mass of movement like turnstile drain water, a postcard carrot, and life
savings from bed to bath to breakfast to camera to car to park.

Pictured rush of regret, the moment not lived but captured like birdwings high on acetate.
Elixir streams meaning as a separate thing, entwined, threaded, codified; reached out into
the underpinning, reconstituted, humidified, stretched. Dangled strands stripped and
lifted thumbprints along the edges with no end, magnificent pumpkin skin and tomato red,
so long as the machine can bend.

Heavy scented pulled greedy, masked waxed sorted and sold, the isle-way of captivation with
gangly appendage gossip eye last-last mile withers then rallies. Smell American breeze and
foaming agent floated six feet up, serpented determined lantern genie turning, communing as
one third of the Trinity, turning to taste backwardly from nose to mouth; a swallowed breath,
a filtered smile.

Chasing clumsy leaves with eyes, idol worship wishbone service a cart, a red vine, a metallic
pair of understandings, pleadings and beggings; a handout, a ride, anything—“just give me
your ears!” Backward walking, looking, blocking; too much is going on: the mountain,
the stream, the river, the caves, the witchcraft repeated. Don’t go solo for there is much to be
frantic for. Barely walking, reflections tying up the unwanted; let’s go.

So the pull and stretch continues forever; and folding too. A motor hum cannot be heard,
it is seen and therefore it is heard. It has been heard before, years ago, going just as slow
and monotonous. The racked sinewy syrup will never be the same again; the lust swells, saliva
pours like squeezed lemon juice, knowing nothing—no answer. There is no incense lit amongst
the mob, only joy like the lottery. Do not stop. Slow, but move onto still other treasures
and pleasures of the senses. Do not be alarmed walking in a crowd of strangers when every vessel
is an alien; not one familiar go-between, not one.

Pavement too, domineers; unrepentant, over again if he wills, “come with me up this hill!”
Then the birds like robots appear, not because they have arrived, but because they are seen
and heard. The verdigris trees they sing, sing, sing. Too spirited bebop wagon dragging
cowslips pitooty, laugh, laugh, laugh; my popcorn birdsong into other-worldly chorus like an
unchained gang. The overture quells them—where has the sweet seaside aroma gone? It has
de-threaded the skull and returns to the sky, along with sunshine, books and sounds.

The door closed unnoticed (it does this every 13 minutes every day, every year). Not being
enigmatic (the door), but the use of it over and over, and still without proper confections.
Is there any hope in spinning static? Better dreams were dreamt for this sweet sand. A cauldron
of dancing webs, and mystic wand hovered romances. Do not stop; despair, for there are
many pagans tithing for a taste of this algodon magic.

Half of the obsession is on the ground, stuck and fluttering like a wounded moth, wondering
where has the light gone. Concocted rush is more reflexive, it is unkind and untamed
as domesticated fealty at the trough nosing through a fare of ash can delights fueling that wafty
park air with its permanent sticky overuse. Overuse as in “never closed” like a theater’s sticky
floor; vaporized, imbedded in my clothes.

Stolen by fantasy, swallowed up in triglyceride heaven, wrist band moniker dismantled walls
not quite a nightmare, though the price kills me. Consider pyro stars and balloon planets
albatrossing across the walk and glow worm skies. Once you take it, where do you go with it?
What rainbow pot do you choose? Step forward in queue in a crushy atmosphere at nine.
The cool air can be seen just ahead; not really seen, but the reaction of those heading in can be
seen reaching noses toward the vents grinning and everyone goes quiet.

Humanity’s sea has organized a rip tide taking the light ones away across the terrace directly
toward oncoming experienced flocks of cigarette holders, snow cones, tarts, fanny packs,
lamp shades, tears, mustard stains, Altoids and liquor. Determined Coriolis of worn out well
wishers fainting on the tarmac, sending distress signals up skirts and into halls, fracturing
sound already in there.

Ringing leap from the beaten drum, hula hoop bubbles floating relentless through every
diaphragm, stopping; some make way. A savage sound excites the soul. Every island
abandons reverie to behold the intrusion like sky writing, “Surrender!” Every conscious being
sips the same cup, in the same boat, same cooked stew. Everyone listens, sameness,
no translation necessary. the edges of reality vanish with every wave, congregational
tunnel vision ears, augen, heart, clasped hands dissolve from grips; fatigue lifts
and a dazzle begins.

Euphoria blows a kiss, a favorite trade wind, a whisper of a mother to hear in the heart
the wonderful hug of breasts and shoulder rests. Harmony of smell, sound and memory-
played phosphenes and a smile. On marches a dale and floats, a mushroom at sea,
a banshee on rails; a symphony. Lively; speed of a funeral, drawn by imaginary majorettes
proposing to every face.

Behold the beaded windmill with silken paddles; Icarus dirigibles front the spectacle bouncing
and bounding, a unified gasp, so much so to slow. The tribe goes triumphant, a picket
of children holding hands sideways crossing.

Louder still the colors, the sounds, a thousand and one conversations in red, blue and yellow
smoke topped out and transfixed. There’s more— steam shovel arms streaming powerful
totem women flapping in Cheshire doubloons— a movable feast.

From hollow cloistered sound coaxed to toast the town; at first distant, directionless, then
mighty and heavenly as an opus. As each one drops, a new leaf grows.

An invisible dome of treasured sound awakens the mad creation; a wonderland and beyond.
The eye of the spectacle is nigh.

Red carpet tongue unfurled, studded, a crossing grate Eiger, vaunted spire; orgy.

Electoral feasts aqueous transmission impaled in glory, conductor of them all.

A cello roars a rubby moan up, then down, then back again.

Then a rowdy violin gives chase through slalom course.

The tail floats through on kite, rippled and graspless;

a signal for the mind to go home, a new moment alone;

first in xeriscapes wide of lost lesbian shores,

onanistic, vanished verse.

Then, out of sight.