The Muzak Of The Spheres
asking hard-boiled questions
trading the possibility
that sometime in the near future
this prophesy comes true.
lifting the paved
He who cups the hands
into the sign of post-trended
comes silently down the passage
into a place where only lip-service prevails.
over faces lifted high
bask in the sun
and steam rises
to encrust and dessicate.
seeing all the convolutions
in the process of baking bread.
task sharded into the many lifes
of harvest time
as the seed bursts.
Dancing in the moonlight
for more than can possibly be contained
in this pauper's place
with endless rapture.
this time into the prism
reeking of only-just-cut-up-in-time
as wafting and waiting
the jasmine rode lanes of purple porphyry
as they ricochet off walls of imprisonment
into traces of embolism.
Rogue playing dice with devices
draining the life-force–
kitchen richer than at possibly any time in the past
for the meal is so nearly ready
consummation of so many times
when you came so close
and inched your way to breathing
towards the light of day–
raising the tenor
placing the point in its rightful place
so that the melody comes in tune–
proof of that planetary quest
beyond the trophies of wrecked high-life.
"Inquire not into the truth
of the many layers
as each has its own inquisition"
nor begging the question
which raked those eyes with lies
of ekeing out an existence
when so much more
was available and offered
unconditionally tainted with bliss.
Proof rocks the minds of many
linked to the quest
and narrows the scope
of panoramic inquiries
when time twisted the rafters
and the scope was narrowed.
the muzak of the spheres
when lifting the light
rifted on crass rackets
of laden strikes
and pork-encrusted lakes
crying blight crimes
against humanity's appetite
for frozen food
blasting the roof-top open
so that the rain comes in soddenly.
prime-time for cooking the waste
into a tasty meal.
"Suffer the little children to come emptily"
post-haste in case incarcerated prayers are left
to muffle the cries of open-ended pleasure.
"Seek ye not the praise of emperors."
Treasure the quiff
and the nigh-ripe lick of trees' fruit.
Umbrage coated with resin
soft-seamed lichen prefaces
the whole universal trip down the tide-line
so that in the morning light
you see that only in make-believe
is the trouble fully composed.
Pay the rent.