Infinite Atoms

Solaris, in boundless skies of golden pleasure. Drinking milk from sunflowers in kettle-ponds. I am willing and persistent and diligent. In the night I see prehistoric rock paintings in the purple swelling. Twinkling lights. City lights. Dark shadows reflecting on the puddles. I hear the lake, the traffic, the jingle of metal. Soft radio echoes in my mind reminding me of summertime. A thousand little worlds inhabited by departed souls on a priceless journey in the afterlife. Fiery portals with rich life. Every scar left behind tells me I made it. I believe it. I've came this far, breathing slowly. It's impossible to fathom the heavenly body. Breaking the fall, answering the call.

There are children in the swans gasping for air. Fighting against the austere night winds, summers of a forgotten time, gods with powerful breaths. I continue into the winedark, epi oinopa ponton. Past the mute waxworks, the moonlight in the emergency room, the cerulean sky and the fruit of the waning moon. With my oddments in the silent part of town, I am water not filled.

Choking on fears. Neuron to neuron. Cruzer blade to the port of the system unit. Unplugged from dreams, parasocial communications. I awake to a dopamine influx and cobwebs in the head. In soils of Sangamon, in soils of Spokane. Wide open at Hudson Bay. Fingers splayed. The felt is produced in nightmares. I feel the burning. At a loose end I've grown distant from all the home comforts I relied on. I am staring at the face of silence in the shadow of time. Damaged by each daydream perforating the core. I tried to warn you, thinking about the past. In the shade or bathing in crystal light. The synthesis of feelings, idle thoughts, are sculpted from infinite atoms. I am infinite atoms.

Inhabited by the bells in my ears, codebreakers. Arranged acrostic. The spine bending. I can see it, unhinged. One of a kind. Utrillo, Phylarch. Embattled on a spiral staircase, pining for something more. There was no notice before the fever hit me hard. Now I'm adding bricks to the bulwark in the throes of peril. Crying for the doldrums. Crying for the watchword. Your ostentation makes its mark. The albatross around my neck is a first degree burn. I must be blind, thinking about how I thought you cared. When I wanted you to teach me how.

In a bolt-hole I pull the rod from the raw sugar. As the seasons pass I'm a sleeping candle. Bridges from the hills. Learning to move on with time. My beady eyes are bright, two vacancies. Towing hooks. Sisyphys in troubled waters. Tearing apart the landfill. Facile. Bull by the horns. Turned the lamp on. On the dilapidated mountain covered with fresh snow. I follow peccadillos where the path bends, little brooks in the woods. Reading a book by the bluestocking. Unable to decipher the scrawled handwriting. Between the wavelengths of green and blue the day ends with keyhole surgery, a glut of reasons to rue. I am as still as the vase of flowers in the painting by Matisse. Interrupted in the shower by a voice. I wait like a snake. Ablaze and burning in shades of gold. No man ever steps in the same river twice. In the fast lane. I take the butternut squash, the bamboo shoots and water chestnuts. I make small talk, frills and bite marks.