The zeitgeist was a reflection on not participating in current events as a punishment for imperfection
from the over-dog mediocre realist, the mediocre dreamer always with a desire for gains,
but never understanding will – yet, still tossing empty Lowenbraus over the bridge on the river Kwai
not realizing it was built only for a sense of survival and maybe even superiority.

And now, I gotta talk about the paper daisy monarchs, for maybe they are the secret string pullers.
Maybe the gun blood paper slingers and the Lowenbrau tossers of the alternate plot
are just as distracted by their foggy rabbit hats.

Check your crown. Check your crown. Check your crown.

Maybe the blood is not as sticky as you always feel.
Maybe the paper daisy monarchs have sneaked up on you and wiped your brow with gratitude
that sings and whispers and inflates your 4-year-old self-back to life.

Remember, and this is important, the inching, crisp colors Blood, Blue and Emerald are real.
The foggy whisky of the color Yellow is a mystical experience of crying.
It is shared in a theater called night with hammered lanterns and scattered fangs.
It is exhausted and will persist because it is shared by everybody in a theater
called night with hammered lanterns and scattered fangs.

So, I ask: Where is my mind? And my heart? And my toe? And my lemon ankle anger?
Is it spilled on blood paper?

Again, tickled by murder, and corpses with mints in parallax visions from star singing poets always shivering?

Swallowing, I realized it had not been a dream.
Thick syrup had been poured through a hole in my skull by enchanted mice
because they thought I was one of the drunk, obese peasants born during the chalk moon.
Maybe I am. I thought I was a motherless pig. So, I had been told. Maybe they are the same thing.
Either way, there is the blood of pillagers to consider.
Personally, I strived to be a Bohemian, a free thinker with only a stolen knife for protection
with a fanatical mistress who keeps one eye closed for ten seconds before switching.
It's an homage to Pushkin I think. Maybe Balzac. I don't know. I've never read either.
But, I think I had been slammed into silence by a nonexistent author who worked with enchanted mice.
This began a long time ago, and the work continues. I am a nonexistent masterpiece in this way.
A harmless strange lie sitting on a bus with cannibals and Nazis.
Most of them writers with many friends stinking of cigarettes and potted plants holding half cups of tea.
All of them shooting out verses from scribbled notes displayed on black mirrors euphoric and jealous. Disdainful silence too. Bad sportsmanship. Lumpy sacks of pretension.
Elaborate scams filled with fear of derision jolt me awake.
Obvious answers that I cannot see because my legs are cramping. Hydration is important.
Still, villages are burning and light travels forever without slowing or fading. Both are retribution.
Dead or dying yet endless. Brutal arithmetic whispered to slaughtering innocence.
Do you smell that smoke? The enchanted mice are celebrating.

And where is my zenith machete always holy with insight and curved fangs?
And where is my epiphany quoted at dawn and at night from books to be confiscated by guns or dust?
Where? I would like to know.
I would like to write it down in words and shapes and signals and verse.
I would like to sing and scream and pull rabbits from hats with diagrams
while still retaining the magical awe.
I would like a new punctuation mark to signify completeness.