Neibelheimian Exhile While His Third Eye Brims with Tears for Ever-Imminent Pulverization

I

to front a peak at heart, mecca
this growing mysterious ache,

less pervasive in countour than

 they board directly, carpetbags in tow

and backwater remarks snarl 'cross nice paisley upholstered 
seats up ancient levels of maritime down
the coming the going, a hidden hull
going groan, a sphynxian iron roar

fades at full speed

 rusting morn unto eve

traveling

the flare expected of  getting lost

alights casual consensual confusion

funtional ignorance corkscrews across the dysfunctional chasm

 light his self-loving retentive abstractions

hives where she blindly knelt

and her voice never heard before bed

going groan, the headboard directed diversion, 

the coming the going sure yet

flaws they up and

boarded directly bound down

towns in the south, deli murals
sink bottom gods
took they up and boarded in the dark landing

'morrow to face 

as if truth just below a fold in perception would alight with the dawn

too hyper thoughts too sleep not even the imams could foresee

"can't"
"not the truth"

in the concise hours

across the starved confines of this

cathexis us

II

the omnisphere of light

its staying power

spouting lessons, really.

The betterment of better men.

Did Picasso see footsteps

slicken mostly mud?

Was his story bought for pennies?

It's staying power

that's my faith

    but evacuation, that, too, we want done.

I feel tired.

We do that.

Baths must be hot against the skin, the ears

barsoap from the farmers market

she signs herself clean everywhere, across every

slickened orifice, muddy. You start.

When truth-telling became a resource 

community [was] sacrificed.

Truth. Come back

the omnipresence of light 

in darkness

its staying power 

spouting perspectives, really

slick like a senator she continued, 

asking "are perspectives repressed?"

The footsteps we rise to meet, 

that's ours, you start.

We saw, she learned, 

I did it again anyway.

Its staying power, that's mine.

III

we met the perimeter

parts of the plumbing fade, the high

corporation burst, a ratty little lightning 

wrests the attic and all 

our studded wrongs were suddenly made right.

via smoke

pounds dissolve

dark spices sponge across the 

plucked and pronged

coarse cured once living ribrack.

Beer stitched, fired-up He is pink

and voluptuous 

an article in the Times

about a scientist's unpublished pulp paper

on x-ray vision unsheathing fossilized secrets

"Now thrice dead," he said roaring laughter

familiar and fleeting as the melody

of eternal maneuvering curations.

History, a sandy pillar of dust

His heat hums

And lo, we are afraid, but

"healing" he says as eucatastrophically as possible

while white voltage sands our feet to glass

our bones bake and the marrow opens 

to a new perspective, abstract

O god your fire irradiates us

but first

how about a million years of marination?