"The Garden Path"

"The Garden Path"

Blurt your purpose from the foothills of Olympus.

Scream these dreams in an invisible voice that echoes off Andromeda.

Fill your world with fire so that your death may be a beacon.

Swallow galaxies and shit new universes, worlds that rhyme and time in meter.

Do what you will,

but your dreams are just a shimmering sheen of the mind,

a playful display of textures, images, and dispositions,

the goals of an inconsequential soul ripping flowers from the ground as it leads

       you

down a garden path.

It is an eye rhyme to your mind,

a false perception of the perfection of light from a mirror at your back bouncing

       off a mirror in your face.

You are a loop and it is the centrifuge.

It is the bulb from which your fluorescent light sprouts

and the dirt inside your eye socket.

It is the trowel, the spade, the diamond, and the

                                                                                 severed hand,

and you are the blood that floods the flowerbed that drowns the dreamers as

       they sleep.

You are now the now-soaked soil and soon the soon-smooth rock.

You are the charred bark on a branch of lightning, and the unheard thunder of

       Tunguska's flattened forest.

It is the demon of a desperate god,

the blank slate tablet of the apostrophic angel,

the void of a monk’s mind shrunk into a bubble, POPPED

and mopped up by a puppy’s tongue.

Because when you have these dreams you have these dreams and that is all.

And when you have these dreams they have you too,

and maybe just as much.