October mornings no one is claiming to be insane and tho it’s tilting no one’s explaining the labyrinth of colors unwinding in amazement
and from the afternoons of still life to the evening’s portrait frames do not intend to be the end and the paint is only rain
matador magicians with the pendulums of their hands are throwing questions into vacant corridors of waiting then stand back to laugh at circles of confusion lines of answers and the shapes from sudden pressure of their face against the glass are the signs upon their capes
a metamorphosis of rainbow spice into ice the cardboard stop signs announce the coming of the cellophane moon crashing thru its phases
the open night is hanging mind-cloud posters from the edge of the universe the stars are moaning for a double then explode from loneliness
guitars and flute trills in cloaks of string quartets untangle the morning electric dancers are dangling the sky with fireworks and candles
and from the afternoons of still life to the evening’s portrait frames do not intend to be the end and the paint is only rain