Dē Nātūrā Deōrum

Pyramid, cube, octohedron, dodecahedron, eicosihedron: in as much
the empyreal form(s) en masse of the computative dot senses its own ponderable GOD, gyral pro-rata, in spin of state, turning for steadfast-

ness of mind that tops conception itself or any capacity of our humbug understanding, which is a maze of slip, knot, error so absolute to leave us this long pink rented story of what’s so obvious: the skies, the rats, the stars,

the flat earth, the blue round ball on which some numinous green mystery
of crayon and dust pervades all our clod-strewn reasons to toll and count,
to bawl and pout and paint over the stressful years, the stressful months,

the stressful seasons without sighting one terminal margin of marbles
or decisive point of sanity where without whimpering we might stop
our immensity for superstitious breath and latter-most tears: so long

and then farewell through this dark chink of spell as the hook-shaped void in another log-heavy field of just confusion prefers quite openly to deny us the indulgence of its crossroads so that, still, we have no brainy device

or next-best option to part its briny deep locker as when our colliders sock and smash and cleave the smallest of sanctuaries, we then only multiply
the problem farther out of reach: in fact at this bloody point in the road

we are probably already out of gas, implicit to the hard mouthful of fact
that we are stuck vast in some extra-intelligent V.C.R, beneath the ripe
palm of multiple hands, scavenging twigs for lunch and with only so much

time to dream up another day at the carnival as one walks on his head
back from the dunking booth and to the urinal among dinosaur bones where the clock strikes whatever ripe time it’s intent on, capsizing all

our dusty, sourpussed schemes, preventing the dull-sharp toothache
of our virtual-seesaw lives from becoming too much to deal with.
As for my part. As I understand it. The banish-telling truth,

its permanently discolored snapshot: to mouth the ghostly dreams
of others conked in the green shell of tomorrow is to feel under
the numinous wings of marching orders through which it appears

the accordion is opening wider, still wheezing up its one single breath.