Ghost Chamber with Tall Door

It might have been at the tail end
Of some pop star’s swift-red carpet
Where I hounded in like a scarecrow
With the same old sniff of a sniffle
Along with my yellow-blue eye
Fixed upon the very yank and squirm
Belonging to a flash bulb, beneath which
A rabbit’s foot would twitch and then writhe
Next to the detached copperhead of a serpent.
An attempt to hop–notwithstanding all the phantom’s
Pain, mostly which entailed feeling the caught
Blue crab–dropped in next to the reddest of lobsters:
Its soon-to-be carcass of limbs beginning to make sway
To the very top boils of my own kitchen-yellow pot.
This, of course, could have been before a white
To black spotted Siamese cat began to strut
Away from her twin and into her particular tenor
Of drag, into this episode’s whole overall shot–
As this cat made her own Michael Jackson 1980’s
Cameo, slinking her model’s pearl-white, hook-sharp
Paw, as if just to give an honest stab from a claw
At any luck left in the Hyde of this rabbit’s cotton-
white flush of a foot–a cotton-pillow-white flush
Of some off, undetected hue, which Paul Klee
Once might have brushed out with a flurry
For the melting shape of a Christmas card
Which the mailman had lost some time ago.
That this cat would leave the rabbit’s foot
To (yet again) twitch and write and rot
At the busted, broken lip of an old-testament ditch–
An old-testament ditch wherein fact the dilated eye
Of (how foul) a prized goldfish had just been dropped
Off for the count, where it might have been given permission
To count its last bubbles before swimming out of breath.
The ziplocked bag leaning next to the very threshold stone,
The very threshold stone that would lead a scapegoat
As prized and colored as Yoseph (Hebrew for ‘He Shall Add’)
Out from the great book of Genesis and (like that famous well)
Into the black-hole hotel of the same-old labyrinth.
The same-old witchy black-hole hotel of the labyrinth
Whose stained-glass jigsaw of a center keeps itself (well)
For the splintery riddle for which each and every particle
Belonging to the snuff of C.E.R.N.‘s top physicists
Continue in blow our world(s) apart outside of Geneva,
So busy boggling the lids to their eyes when not beckoning
Their minds for holiday, on a cruise ship. That I might add,
Like Yosef, another warp and hair-line twist of a crack
Deep inside their rear-view mirrors: and just as–
Another universe splits like this text into the red to yellow yolk
Of her own dark nonsensical matter for which
Only a few might brave past the granted red carpet ride
And (as if to be baptized) into the mending waters of this deep dark deep.