Splattering the parchment, dripping ink from the nib, and drop the sloppy slab of granite, a headstone shatters hard on harder cement. Coinciding shards of glass reflecting, glisten slit light bloody rifts, slender fingers grace the curve, trace the bow of lip, reflecting almond eye, and glinting. Scintillating beam refracts, prismatic starburst rays from razor’s edge, the arch of a foot, the palm of a hand brought down on wood unbreaking, shaking sending dust in Brownian motion, scattered by percussion. Breathing draw back limb, retracting power gathers, focus.

 
slow grimace, shout, and the hand a piston of energy, slamming again into block and board. A bow, turn, bow, kow-tow and prostrate. stepping across the bodies, walking between and by them, passing palanquin bearing stately official in long sequined garb. Indeterminate gender, turban, Afro-Celt perhaps. Slaves drawn by rope, servants bearing a large ornate chest, and seated then at a throne, beholds. Colors in deep blue-green, electric light, turquoise, cinnamon, Rose, Saffron, Magenta, puce. Gems, the middle way, line studded, ruby, emerald, gilt, and sterling, surround the goblet brought to taste, and quaff by gulps beyond good measure, drought.

 
tongue deep in the grooves, depression and probe with sensitive tips, dipped in ointment, anointed eyes rheumy, old hand arthritic, shaking uncontrollably, and laugh while return to youth. Devilish horror so-called, that seeming mockery, and question the underlying cause, the root, the origins of both, deep inside. More drinking, shrinking, shedding opaque layers of various texture, overlapping. Comb back the mane, even groom the brows, and flick the fly-brush like the eyelids which flutter and tongue that lolls languidly about, trilling in one ear, rollicking laughter and applause, snickers from the audience, rolling eyes, and patting a hefty paunch. Lean back and sigh, exhale, exhaust, and Gus, dressed like a gentleman, reductionist theory, presentation later, ponderous, a void place of meditation, a quandary, division and split. Nullify moments, trace the follicle back through minuscule landscape, rally what life-forms extant, unseen, and explore.

 

Severally, too many, and inexplicable, press like cylinder in rotation, the type-press and moving box, musically, ornate, instrumental, carved in wood again, Acacia, relief detail scented wonderfully, delight the tender ear and eye by delicate mechanisms. Wonderment of clock and toy maker, sculptor, photographer, collector of paper ephemera, knives, guns, and coins.

 
Old things, in good condition, belonging in a museum perhaps, but privately, once used in a duel, an execution, and a flurry of combat, troops clashing amidst shouts and deafening gunpowder blasts. Appears a trip through time and form, sensation and setting, place and person, past and present tense, no future but now, and time transcended soon, a laugh. The undead corporal leans on his musket, wipes his face, frontiersman, settler, cowpoke, pioneer, and future pull up duster, derby, bandanna, goggles, will know what we need and have it. 10,000 years continuous victory, impossible to challenge, inscrutable, epic and insurmountable. One can only observe, in mute appreciation, to question is death, the knowledge of life, unknowing, like a lover, beckons.

 
Parting the veils, gauze-like, entering an opium dream, intoxicated by the energy, lustful and erotic, Martial & Venusian, sweet kisses, and hypnotic gaze, soft caress, soothing voice, captivating, allure, holds attention rapt, unswerving devotion, unyielding will, unbending intent, unending and infinite game, unerring achievement and success.
The poison takes, the color turns, pallor, and the stricken look, shock and surprise, what horror in the eyes, a gasping sputtering mouth agape, turn hues and shades, knowing death is immanent, or dead already and yet unwitting, expire. When faln to the floor, consciousness remains a lingering sensation though dulled, fading, numbed but marginally aware, pain an object of consciousness gripped and slipping, the color of the world blacking out from the edge outside-in from periphery and blotchy patterns, one commentator investigates, and this consciousness is transferred into the machinery, visible on a screen.

 
Orbs systematically operate,smooth and efficient, pausing time and out of phase, moving along separate lines beyond room and sequence, seeming to turn the place inside-out and around as they maneuver, connecting links to various parts of the energetic pattern, until the entire graphic enterprise glows, like blood dripping down a groove, power flows into the established grid.

Wouldn’t matter if you swallowed a grenade, and fragged gibs and shrapnel, particulate matter exploded everywhere, in fact that degree of mess, a ruin, would be more appealing than cleaning up one body or spilt grape juice. When baby drops the bottle, when the last round falls free of an aged grasp with a final gasp, and release, you wonder. We don’t like little things out of place, do we? We’ve grown to love the chaos, heat, freezing cold, panic, madness, sweat pouring, exertion, strain to failure, to breaking, we love the over stress, enduring, and we love the order, avoiding every incident not planned, and followed to the letter, do we?

Overgrown tangles, a hoarder’s home, buried treasure, a shipwreck after a squall, a train-wreck caused by cows or rickshaws perhaps. The overwhelming swell of nature, swoon, rapture, but the secret of chaotic matter, subtle, fine, inchoate. The growth of a tumor, cobwebs and gathering dust in corners, the scent of mildewed books, pages fading, brittle to the touch, bones becoming dust, a thing that can not be observed without being disturbed, perfectly responsive when it’s noticed, it’s one act is disappearing. The snake of a live root, covered with thorns or a suckered tentacle, winding like a vine, around the wrists, throat, waist, leg, wrap around like a mummy, the binding and lashing, leave the horse at a post, chain the hound, feed and water them, pet them.

Too many things just happen at once, this chaos the matrix of creation, some sheer potential, some overlap for crowding instance, begging identity and confession, the almost whimpering puppy-doe eyes, well with tear, quivering lip in a pout, like your four-year old asking why grandma died, or someone surprised by being slapped and suddenly full of unspeakable emotion that instant before a reaction, cries break out, or retaliation. The moment of shock is hilarious, a moment inspires compassion, a moment to gather the seeded cloud, to sow in the ground, to show me where the truffles are, to sample the chocolates, to take in the mouth-watering sight, to dwell in the oasis, which is to others only a mirage, and to others never noticed a’tall.

Spread out then, sort, roll out the span, erect the stand of multiple displays, definition of tangible, variable, color and definition of anything, down to the most minuscule, most remote, most obscure, repeating renditions of extreme action and instance for effect, diffuse, skirmish, and window dressing, washing, wiping, screen, flycatcher, parrot, and something you think is patriotic but is not.
One room with full decor, your live plant, your perfectly content pets, pleasant view, something suitable to wear, to watch on television, to read with your tea, to sit on your shelf and table, a vase for fresh flowers, a nutritious and delicious breakfast, fitness, gear, walls the color you enjoy, me I like slate-grey. Smell of green onions, flavor of garlic, will lose consciousness soon, and swirl back into the color-pot like so much paint into thinner, and losing cohesion, yes disintegration, so concentrate my friend, for now.