Contemplations of Mysteries of the Universe

August 27, 2009 coothoots

“Black holes are where God divided by zero.” Steven Wright

May’s mixed-up foxtrot,
sings blue voices
unleashes flitter,
and combs sky strings
for color.

But what I see is the tears
from Adam and Eve
after they were expelled
from Paradise.

Desire rises to let blinded opaque moan,
flow lava, remedy troubles of the world,
and let off course aliens carry beams
to guide celestial onlookers.

The stencil cutouts display,
cup awe for lampshades seen
through sleepy-eyed umbels.

Here pirates hang the moon, drink gin,
and fire their pipes on midnight light.
I hang to night swinging in hammock,
eyes cross-dressing the fullness
that peeps sandwiched between
gray and opaque drifts.

They, seemingly, hold life in higher places,
like we all seem to do.

Blackbeard must surely live,
as the stars gather like sirens ready
to make landfall after chills in the air
have left them moonstruck.

The notion of a pirate and a star ship
of ladies tickles my brain
given his larcenous soul.
Only fools believe they banded
to bury stolen treasure.

Outlines of flying squirrels, kangaroos,
and mermaids drift between sunset boats
of coral. The ill-mannered deep-sky
monsters devour big comets,
and obstinate beings dig out
space ends sucked into inky holes.
It’s just a force of nature.

Sometimes I think of these wicked
as cannibals dancing religious rites;
how they beat and eat the old
to absorb their wisdom,
and at the same time
pay tribute to ancestors.

For a while gaze is on monkeys playing checkers,
wrapped up like pigs in a blanket ready to squeal
to the sound of Gabriel’s trumpet,
which will shower capon’s fall from heaven.

Below springy mountains lie covered,
and whipped with cream
where delicious pastries sprout paths.
Their quarters are made from bread,
and the bridges are spicy sausages.

Glistened drops fall in a small fountain,
and if one is lucky enough to find
they may reduce their age
by washing in cooler waters.

The world will then give birth singing,
and babies will never crawl or drool,
and always respect their elders.
Within this magic -
homes and streets are cut
from colored construction paper,
and the town people rename their land Oz.
Inhabitants become paper dolls.

The downside is there is never a gentle breeze,
or delicate rains so paper people cannot be damaged,
or dissolved. Flowers no longer grow but people arch
the rocks known as “treescapes”, line their walls,
and limbs turn up to form fine drapes of beauty.

And in some coastal towns near Florida
where water is restricted the Betty’s
of the world do not have to moonlight
after midnight, jog in black,
wear night vision goggles,
and hide from neighborhood watches.

Life is bright, lithe, mirthful, slender,
and graceful as Indian figures
riding piebald horses
that warn the faithless
to stay away.

The intimacy of heaven is peace,
no sense of envy, greed or hatred,
and welcomes people like me that want
to astral travel.

Yes! Let opaque be a color,
a staircase descending the western view,
offer glimpses into the inside of heaven
that waves search lights for the lost.

Disguise the ones found as children in wings,
guard them with benevolent pillars of salt.
And best of all let’s forget bad times,
let Karma make paper cutouts
of diverse cultures, clear the night,
strew stars past scuttlebutt, spheres,
and tunnels.

Entry Filed under: Poetry,Writer

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