Inhabitants of an artificial paradise shake in the souvenir desert sand globe upon departure on a commercial flight, distancing the drowned imagination of an arid landscape filled with chemical laced waters to slow the motion of the granules of time through teddy-bear cholla.
Lapping tongues of fire whisper threats before departure,
and upon arrival,
are you separate? Are you sometime else?
Dovecote void of God of love,
the sounds of fluttering hearts,
the flapping sounds of the wings of Aprhodite
are just windmills
that blow signals to vibrate in your pocket to show you real, live images of the
universe that interrupt the peace of your existential exit.
There is no chaos, because there are no doves.
There are no lions because there is no chaos.
You see the cicada, only because you hear the cicada.
Cows roam commercial, hovering the coastal highway, obstructing your view of the milk thistle.
The house of a celestial goddess is empty, but the roots of its surrounding blooms twist their knuckles into the underworld.
The naked meditation is powered by the sun
Powered
By prosthetic banks
Protected by ultraviolet resistant nylon nirvana
Church is attended only incidentally, and young people,
indecent and dripping, are naked babes that bathe before Byzantine icons whether or not they intended it to be this way.
—Toniann Fernandez
