in elektrikalifournialand
it rains tarot cards
and comic strips
which skeletons hoard
to gamble with.
surrounding all in
the atmosphere
blocks of a language
occur
which go unnoticed
by the naked eye.
a magickian with pure
obsidian scissors
comes to save phrases
trapped in the air,
the mazes of space
and ethereal doors.

the angels race by
in madman spaceships
as fragile as setember
(trying to remember
how octover cavorts
with witches and saints
as she paints their eyes
like acoustic leaves)
and just because
a drum believes
invisibly rhythmic particles
float
around the searching
magickian's head;
he excavates souls
buried in airwaves,
fragile alphanumeric children,
aching and waiting to be
cut out of time. the surgery
must be
insane
ly precise, defining each atom's
whispers
exactly.

we must all be
that readymade wizard
sometimes;
soon it will be your shadow's turn;
the mirror will be your question
to ponder.
silence will be your answer to burn.

and as the angels be/
come immortal,
they will light
a prayer
for you.

The violin refused to play one day.

it bit into the silence. Blood trickled
from its lips.
We pleaded. We prayed.
We cried out our request,
but         (all it took was one look
        in those eyes to know) this was a deadset
            instrument: wanting, unfulfilled.

In its silence we debated possibilities
and meanings-1one1iness, illeness, anxiety,
love: (all of them empty suppositions of desire;
we should've known better: it simply wanted: to be painted

bright red. to go home. to have easter egg friends.
to be read fairy tales. to hear tapes of rock music.
to understand its existence. simply sickened from of being
a violin, a daisy's kiss to was its simplest desire:
(to be free of the virtuoso's numbing touch.)

The next day, its replacement arrived;
they threw the first in a garbage can
&

God only now
hears the silence
resonating from
the broken strings.