2004-05-06 - 12:09 a.m.

I will wittle the universe out of beachwood, turn the sky in side out and dance on its head, I will teach the flame to sing and mix salt water with dreams and call it tears. I will slip backwards only to face north. My brain will power the dusty shadow-government bunkers of Dick Cheney, a glowing cerebellum generator kept secert from Telsa's ghosts. The dancers upon my skin will flow together and come apart, sewing all the way. The tender gentleness of St. Michael's anger will turn into turtles docking themselves on sandy coves in the twilight. The cats will lead the canter in the church of grass and the gyre will fold itself into a penrose tile. Somewhere in heaven, sleep will don its armor.