Forming Genesis

Arc
I arc upwards, myself an ark carrying an entire cosmos on-board, surprisingly light and marshmallow, marshy and malleable, refusing to be puffed, and self-contained--observing its own exponential expansion, buoyant and boyish, contradicting mind-bottlement. The mind is a breathing organism, practicing lamaze for its dream birth, coordinates telescoping into center, contractions through rarefactions. The galvanized sheet metal tree, gleaming in the Midwestern Sun, creaks although still on Art Hill, a summer night breeze slightly crescendoing, blowing in from childhood miles forgotten and not retraced. It is teaching itself how to walk, synthesizing steel into woody chloroplastered ecstasy, an alchemy of dream and matter.


Television and Fire Pits
Drums of mercury singe in their singing, sing in their singeing, sponging up particles of my reflection, a stagnant puddle of muddled candy wrappers caked with dirt and sopping with moonshine. The conglomeration swallowing torrents of dry heaves into its collected guts, a reclaiming of media into medium, cotton-mouth and head, existing alone in a washed-out sunny ionic field, popping into French varicose veins of ore and orange poppies, and vanishing into unexploded paintings of some Andromeda sun in miniature, cobalt blue, a dwarf star, humming silent presence, eating fresh green corn, drinking its saliva from an ancient rock anomaly knowing peace like an uncracked geode, a forgotten wormhole, where yin and yang swirl to heartbeat through purple pudding, modifying genes outside of the tube of modified organisms which happen to be genies internally combusting while sitting on a landfill of Velveeta. While naming x-rays something more like xenon, invoking Adam as muse, enjoying toxicity, eating the waxy paintbrush with waxen lips, living gluten- and tax-free on the ruins of an American mint, one hundred per century.

Trumpets
Trumpets then trumpeting into ruddy bell flowers, periwinkles and pinot forming their pair somewhere before 1999, Adam's infant voice buckles two tectonic plates into Prehistory. He gargles and chokes on the salty sea water, sending tsunami shock waves into the dawn.

Fungi
Liberal fungi who resent the implications of infestation, explore euphoric utopias with fungicidal friends, breathing into cores of seedless palindromic grape candy, writing the definitive work, The Art of Artificiality, a shoddy constructed artifice in treatise form on acid-free paper, post-consumer waste, contained within a plethora of python-tangled constructs, deconstructed, counteracting aceteminophine, dissecting dioxyribonucleic acid dreams of the same circular windows lodging in weathered coastal lodges, in cathedrals of swaying sea cucumbers and cucumber melon doves, in a merangue menagerie of Muszorgsky's posthumously performed mazurkas, sidereeling in one wing of public television, crumbling down graham-cracker crumble crust.


Organic Matter
Through spitting oceanic ash, prehistoric
La Brea Califormica granite taken for granted.

And this is where you tell me about your four-thousand-foot, four-inch mountain
atop the coast, while we wind it, me falling asleep, in the back of your black Volkswagen Cabrio,
left ear popping sitting stationary ascending, my suspended body taking shotgun.

"Smelt sands are situated in nonfiction embankments," I read,
reading not unlike a pseudoscientific romance, as
spittal ebbs and flows in the Norwegian reader's mouth bay, in the corner
of corniness, Cheese Wiz frothed into fondue.

And "off-the-handle" handles like a breezy rider writing
into existence writhing phonemes, a phenomenon of phantom glints,
of phantasmagorical forethought morphing into furry fairy tails, like zygotes formulating zygotes,
fashioning form on a run-way, running its way to the brink of the telescope, through which plays re-runs of America's Next Top Model.