Third Eye

3 11 2012

Little green devils dance through eyelet windows,

a passionate tango on the left side of the brain.

Poison ivy strangled visions of living grow weedily

across the barren seascapes of the mind

twisting everything into tangerine sundreams

instead of fly-buzzing cow-pies.

Flutterbies glide on the whistling breeze,

flapping and flaunting glittering lies.

From its resting spot within the third-eye,

the great raven–Lenore–swoops, swats

swallows them whole, one by one,

the flutterbies are nevermore.

Silent whispers seep through curved tunnels,

tiptoeing across creaky unswept floors.

Heard is a humbling humming, a haunting tune

that resonates like Hitchcock mysteries

and with a smoking pipe, spouting silver-clouded swirls,

the canonistic caterpillar quizzes and questions,

“Who are you and where am I? Are we

inside the dilapidated dreaming mind or

wake-walking through a dream reality

where down is up and up is in between

the beginning and the end of the middle,

where going has a drink with arrived?”

Melodic thoughts manifest across a blank measure,

like the flickering abdomen of lightening bugs,

inhaled through pores; black holes

across a universe of skin, absorbed into the stream of life.

Hues of understanding cascading from above.

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