8 ½

If it is true as Fellini's priest would suggest
That everything outside the kingdom of God belongs to the kingdom of the devil then all highways are avenues of slaves
Chains around thighs,
Ankles,
Heart and mind.
We are all slaves to the gentiles with our sweet surrender
To pale flesh.
Sex in cheap motels and roach hotels of New York city.
America is an asylum where madness is excepted at it's capital.

The Carnival Barker
'Ladies and Gentlemen: come all and witness the human condition
Spectral existence of burning comrades whose genius spirals into super novas where hesitant fingers do not pass.
The cranium becomes a dry clinic,
An ash can for burned our connections.
Paralyses sets in with the impending fear of dying before I escape Long Island.
The traps.
The perverted old doorman who smiles sardonically signifying an overly friendly stranger with bad intention or a pale lunatic whose mind spirals into oceans below the eye of wine,
Synapses flooded,
Electrical storms in the cerebral landscape of the on going movie
In the fragmented theater of shapeless plots and whose scripts derive from
Television sets,
Newspapers
And prescription bottles that lay empty on filthy floors.
Visions of drifting to the seas through the flames of a Viking funeral,
Great Nordic horns cry through the mists of Puget sound.
This is where the constellations take on different meanings.
The eye becomes a witness to the shark-skin reality of March 14th.
This is when I was born,
The joke the gods played on me.
It's also the birthday of Albert Einstein so for years I celebrated this date.
But,
vicious irony,
This was the month of war which came in deadly form over Baghdad,
Rain that explodes in the synapse.
The film of the on going movie skips.
I don't celebrate my birthday much anymore,
April is open.

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