a hermit’s hovel of many mansions,
a shimmering silk kimono billowing
on a clothes line in central Kansas,
a meteorite, suddenly fallen in your backyard
(pulsing with a strangely hypnotic
and inviting glow),
a particularly toxic strain of word virus,
a flaring moment of clarity
in the middle of a mosh pit,
a tattered travelogue entry written in hobo code,
a series of lies that leads (ultimately) to (something
resembling) the (big time, capital T) Truth,
a random, haphazard arrangement
of the 10,000 myriad archetypes of the world,
a sum of parts that is somehow actually larger
than its whole,
an unexpected arrival at reality
via the unwitting disengagement from it,
an open-air market bazaar in a lost city,
a Chinese puzzle box or Russian nesting doll,
flowering open and open, forever down and down
the spiraling, helical dog-tail chase for the Good,
the Just and the Beautiful, etc., etc.
Or, perhaps it would help if you thought of this
fragile little contraption of memes as a mechanical
butterfly flittering the non-Euclidian geometry
of its flight pattern through a forest of wind chimes,
still glistening with rain from a brief
morning thundershower.
