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"My mind was once the true survey,

Of all these meadows fresh and gay,

And in the greenness of the grass,

Did see its hopes as in a glass..."
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Windswept village,

Ancient 1836,

Tornado torn,

Blasted to bits.

 

Here is the steeple,

Here is the bell,

Here is the clergy,

Hurried to hell.

 

Perception: paragraphed.

 

    Gracious gusts of air sliced through the saloon and side-swiped the sheriff, newly 
desert bound. The blacksmith, now inclined to move, found his organs strewn 
amongst a congregation of cacti. Somewhere in the busiest part of town, 3 iguanas 
regained their birth-home.

 

Desert;

Impatient tumbleweed,

Sole-searing sand,

A band of train robbers,

A lonely locamotive.

 

The charcoal smeared engine breathed gun-smoke. 3 men, wild-eyed from birth, 
filled burlap sacks with yellow shapes, shiny prisms, aurum, gold bars- money. They 
were wearing greed, 50 pounds heavier in offensive sunshine. Miraculously, it took 
them 20 seconds to escape to the southernmost point of Death-Valley. The robbery 
and the escape were a success, but the men were dead: they were tornado-
transported.

 

Studescent schoolhouse,

Sleepy seminars:

 

Murderous math,

Luminous literature,

Romantic religion.

 

Guillotine glass,

Wind-wood,

Bothered Bonnets-

Homeless Heads,

Breeze bent bowler-

Motionless men.

 

"God is art, since we can't form him in marble, or smear him on canvas, we paint him 
as the ocean, as cloud-air, both flora and fauna, and most importantly in our 
selves". Dogma drags down drooping doors: dripping mouths, students torrid in 
tantric trance, minds elsewhere. Bethany's brain is buried in the bestial sands: 
Cyclicide.

 

Oh ancient town,

forever replicated,

no memoir shall remain,

of days undecimated.

 

1836,

is all but mixed,

in the minds eye,

where chaos is free,

and order bound,

to sight,smell,touch,

and sound.
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