Lawn mowers invade indifferent rainy skies,
Hundreds of newly discovered graves of
Ancient cannibals, zoophiles and philosophers.
Walls shout at people that read long poems in dreams.
That wear the stars they can’t see, love the masks they can’t wear.
But dreams always end, and you can even count the words:
Aspirin, comedy, compassion, alcohol, internet, rain, cheese, etc.
The Mountain View Dishwasher Society
of the Dead is the only place where I can,
someone told me in a dream, relax.
It’s a scam for the sake of invisible giants
that relentlessly forget the beginning of a sentence
before reaching the end of it. Living in a time
devoid of zeitgeist might be both liberating and boring.
Famous child molesters, necrophiles and scatologists
bury themselves in bottomless heaven.
The shreds of tiny, bamboozled eyes float in unsavory liquids.
The eyes of the four horses and riders,
turned inside out, burn like neglected toys.
I saw huge temples across the river.
They reminded me of Moscow or Kadath in the cold waste.
Something sinister and beautiful by any means, but I thought
it was Toronto or another Canadian city. I don’t know why.
I thought we had to cross the river by boat.
But there was no pier, nothing,
just piles of snow drifting downstream.
At some point the pavement just went underwater.
And a dozen guys with shovels swaggered below the surface.
They talked to each other. One of them said that pigwignitwit
was the name of the berry God loved most of all.
Another one replied it’s BS.
They seemed to gulp something down from plastic bottles.
I don’t think it was air.
Suddenly people near me began to cross the water on foot.
The snow was burning slowly.
[The picture was taken on Museum Hill in Santa Fe.]