Cool hands, shallow chest,
The infirmed line the hall of the self, meekly,
Down at the mouth over what comes next.

Holy intuition of the artist: bullshit.

Skulls opened hard boiled like the egg in the egg cup,
Hand of God in the yellow yolk,
The gold running over the floor.
The task at hand encumbered,
Made steep by the hills we dreamed of visiting.
Now in the highland, wayward.
Tumultuous rapids take soil and round the stones over time as we believe
A river thinks.
Does the river think?

Old mind of the sea, connected to you and me.
Old mine of the well leaching metals, dripping to our source.
Sick science of posts, boasts, as in any age,
Sure it has a handle on common sense.

How obscure thinking must become
As the line at the patent office hosts sweaty palms and space saving contraptions.
Obvious and oblivious on the path of knowledge rewarding the pin cushion,
Coming up with a scoop,
All along her eyes, combed back to front,
The iridescent lizards on flies size up the conscious morsels and the indelible links
Between everything as inherent, natural and where the magic is.
Where cry of one is consideration of a terrible hollow
Where to dip a toe is to feel the Amazon, her darts, trees,
Freedom of time’s fish, flashing round and around our question.
Pyramid, feathered serpent, songs boiled twelve days over the rites,
The substitute of one for another, incarnate, insubstantial
As eternal meets each moment of sickness with the template of a giddy ennui,

On the stage,
Lights, curtain drawn,
Let the entertainment take on the shade.
Let the bulls fight, the blood spill its epiphany of gravity,
Mistaken identity brought in to the family,
A slow cooked grief of home,
In her nature, sole self insubstantial,
Making for the proscenium.
Proboscis of the baboon, limp of the third King.
Our stage is set for tragedy.

By Rolf
12/21/21