Stabbed in the vortex

of converging opposites,

the camouflage

bursts into radiant flowers.

The foreground is drained

through black holes

and ugly kaleidoscopes.

I sit on a dim hill

sipping my

electromagnetic seltzer

convinced of clouds

and their thoughts

the many souls within me

running to a trail of water

running to a caged flame.

The branches

and their attendant owls

yield to a greater light.

The red mouth coos

to a blue lagoon.

The lanterns dance

with robot rays

around the old fireplace.

The scarecrow leaning

in the tin barn

calculates and moves.

I take a rag from

someone's distant pocket

and wipe away borrowed drool.

The ground with its

symphony of pipes

is my box of tools.

The granite in my spine

gets used.

The chant rises sublimely

from a pack of fools.

The hips of this matrix

have the seed's power

in a glass that cools.