The Invisible Violin

If we are to discover what is out there we must board the Holy Ghost, cleave the winds of time into gods and tridents, count the star clusters within us. Under seeking skulls: those white domes, antique tripods brace themselves, their quaint brass fittings helping us to adjust to the future. Some seekers turn a grooved infinity sprocket, some paint cave paintings on the arching bones of craniums. Spirit (that invisible violin), is the prime element in these spiritual machines, some of which gaze into darkness, some that can push behind the past into a freely radical moment unmolested by thought. The secondary element is the whistling tinker man or any god we choose to name. The tertiary element is the rattle of his pots and kettles upon his moving caravan. We hear those tympanic chords, then like hermit crabs we leave our shells and burst out into travelling music.