he bleeds poetry into the storm of the night-mind when the moonlight burns his chlorophyll green eyes through which he gazes with a vision of humanity at the stars that weave a ceiling of magic speaking in a crystal language that weaves a canopy of celestial awe
here lies he, on a springless mattress on the porch with a dislocated body, with a disenchanted mind speaking with a pair of lips that hides the troubled tongue, trembling, to carry words and their weight riding the sound particles vibrating into the night sky spraying fiction that is thought from nothing with the computer brain, that is felt with the throbbing styrofoam heart pouring poetry from the pores
