And the traveler comes
from wherever he may come,
scratching his
with a child’s curiosity.
He walks.
He passes a lion–
Paused, pierced with wooden arrows,
all stripes and anger.
From out the top of his head,
like all men, he tosses labels:
this is violence, this is beauty.
But then he merges them
He mixes a color:
some dark reddish purple.
And walks on.
He stumbles toward the vague border
between time and space
where shadows stop,
praying for protection.
He finds an excavated fishing boat
hanging from imaginary strings.
It has taken the beating
of 100,000 enemies arrows.
Its frame like a porcupine.
On the stern, a tall man
yells, while drawing up the oars,
“I am bringing chaos to time,
to context.”
The traveler’s eyes boggle
up and down.
He carries a weightless feeling
as he boards the ship.
Far off in the distance,
a tree with veins stands
surrounded by fireworks
In it, he sees a dark body rusting
as if its form could be scraped off.
He reaches his arms
down into a typhoon
where waters improvise
like the strokes of a sketch.
Drawing his breath for a moment,
he sprinkles gunpowder
in sweeps around his own boy,
sparks a flame, and smiles-
His world lights for one moment.
His eyes invert
like the pyramids of the moon,
His arms lift up,
And his mouth opens
Schmorgesborg of a Blog 