Movement Through Space

Candy wrappers littering a sunny street, trees denuded of leaves, the smell of dead fish, seaweed, and polluted mud, an art gallery, the stuff of dreams

Twisted in nature contorted in belief

In the shadow of long legs it's too easy to lose all hope

The daring glance of eccentricity a challenge to authoritarian delight

An exquisite corpse in shadows and sunlight leaves entrails of mythology scattered among stars and spun silkily through mire and muck

A vulture sits on weathered brows and picks clean the thoughts of secret seductions and deaths joined in harvest, a time of sorrow

God's smile is a mushroom cloud lighting a room with tattered wallpaper, the naked muse contemplating the afternoon and the death of Christ

A panoply of color swirling through a stark landscape shrouds the high-minded miscreant while a minstrel singing a song of exile and fantasy is lampooned, frivolity is horror, blowflies swollen and engorged, feed on the sex of deviance

Fluid graces and enchanted fates enable golems to make love to clouds and create hard rain

The dream is the map of discovery, despair the geography of knowledge

Inspiration is bleached bones tossed with Russian tea leaves, the mixing of color with nuclear mysticism

The matador rests in the shade of Venus swatting flies away from wilting corpses and bloated roses, unsure whose blood stains the sand

The madman believes he is sage, the sage that he is not mad, both agree their illusion is best

What nightmares await across the broken bridge? Nymphs and specters crowd the shores dancing 'round bonfires smearing their bodies in the sweat of orgies moving to the rhythms of out-of-tune instruments

The keeping of time is disfigurement

A flamenco dancer dances smudges into sunsets the drumbeats lost in tepid smiles captured in black and white, a stale memory passed around with wine, an industrial Eucharist consecrated in a gathering of friends

If there is to be beauty, it must be a woman, alone, contemplating food, in a cool dark room, observed at a distance

If there is to be truth, it must be a man, starving, sketching his last meal with dull colored pencils, whispering frenzy to his well-fed companions

An empty parking garage at dusk, the acrid smell of saltwater and grease, the distant sound of a flute, the stuff of nightmares