the imagination is where it rains paint onto frescoes
of figures to crowd the divine comedy clubs where we
come and go every evening, no ID, no cover at the door
carrying our huddled masses of memory on backs
crunching shells of peanuts and empires on the floor
the strobe light pulsars keeping time with unborn stars
first wears the crown––it is the chicken or the egg,
but who can say is on the mic now, to proclaim
in a language unknown to whomever has ears
no tears need translation and what is the time?
it is lost and what is the point? only a moment
and where did it begin? in the beginning
was the word and the word rained down where
we gathered here to catch it back to the mouths
of us speaking all at once in the land where
the constant rain is coming
from the vision at the bottom
of the iceberg where it
melts
I still think the chicken came first. Lol
He thinks so too : )