is stained with turmeric,
on a rack of metal wheels
next to the Charlie Brown
pine tree
laced in lights and dying.
We live in the most magical time yet.
Fecundity of ephemera
wearing a nonetheless soul,
the tunnel's tiny hole
a diamond-bright insight.
This will be the year of the cosmic Christ,
drunk on drums and dancing:
of a Christ who fucks finally at twenty five,
changing the nature of the mission.
Study the insects who made nuclear fission.
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