Entropy Laughing

Sharp superstition fingers of sun shadow
creep steadily across the desert floor.

Bare feet stumble hastily over nature's
haphazard patchwork: a stitched together
blanket of bruised volcanic rock.

Trembling toes grip the frigid night soil
as stinging eyes wander delicately over
the contours of a sinister yet inviting dry wash.

Overhead the mangled trees creak,
the canopy a tortured swirl of limbs
and snakes that the taunting ocotillo
have sewn together in a writhing knot
of entropic defiance.

As the perspective shifts
the brooding sky above
shrinks into a pale turquoise dot,
only held into place by the sun's
wistful nuclear exhalations.

Strong rope-like fingers
weave through a slipknot mind,
coaxing forth natures order
which sporadically flares in life giving hues
like a sputtering eternal flame:
fitfully oxidizing methane
from the earth below.

Dreams burrow like desert ground squirrels into
the oval windows of consciousness.

Rise to the top.
Rise to the top of the devoted love,
surf the bleeding waves of fear and longing.

The artist must aim their only weapon
towards the universe's hungry heel
(forever staining the dark cosmos
with splashes of righteous indignation and awe).


The hallmark vibrations of the universe
guide our drunken rhythms step by step,
eventually leading to the intoxicating movements
that distinguish this brutal dance of the living.

Oh, the brittle brilliance of a mind
held up on chopstick stilts,
of a mind that reaches deeply
into the sea of writhing photons
only to pull out the wistful
sound of entropy laughing.


Strong rope-like fingers
weave through a slipknot mind,
leaving the tattered cloth of need
hanging down in battered strands.

These are the staggering heart wounds
of consciousness, proudly displayed for all to see.

Dreams burrow like desert ground squirrels into
the oval windows of my brain.


Like a quark caught in a sandstorm,
i am a slave to this slaughter house imagination.

Out of the long-haired sky,
with its immutable roots of gray,
come the dreamscape machines,
wickedly blooming across
the black-drop skies of the
interstellar void.

Oh, the brittle brilliance of a mind
held up on chopstick stilts,
of a mind that reaches deeply
into the sea of writhing photons
only to pull out the wistful
sound of entropy laughing.

Home is shelter,
the mind a prison.

i feel it in my backbone.
i scratch it into my skin:
the soft breath of a trillion outstretched stars
is the flame in which i burn.