Lucid Black recovered in time, vaginas opening and closing at optimal frequencies, horse receiving sufficient God supply, sun still thumping out the hour. Circe did not. She walked into the Livia till the pig fat was a Pegasus. Her buffalo was snoring in the sand. But first they laughed and drank and dreamed and slept in sex. Their blood was brighter then, before before.

By the bend in the Livia Noir she rumbled manylayered thunders into his music box in the cinching breaths prior to emulsion.

He rolled in stunted systoles, intoning his thunders like a young mutt. Your soft eye is Bodhidharma, my Lily Lotus. In your petals I steal the sun to see.

The poems went black around her horse way back when their firstborn overture fell silent in her arms, a mere bellyful of breaths in this whorl before requiem snuffed her sun. She heard he saw her say, She looked a lot alike a dead me. Sixty slumbers thereafter, the new overture barely a will-o’-the-wisp within her glowing Irus, reripening there like a grape in God.

Black was solemnly pondering the poems overhead when he found her floating. His horse kicked apart into the nothing, the nohorse. No hope for rehorse. Nonetheless, his Hamlet pulled her out limp, wet locks streaming through his fissures, gravity’s umbra driving his ruta down deeper in the sand. Carried her back home for hallowing. Wasn’t till the sequent slumber he learned of the second zeroed sun inside. Thought his conch could crack no more, sea could grow no blacker. He was wrong. Undone, Lucid Itty Black never echoed another thunder before passing into the next Pegasus. The essential nature of this Pegasus is really quite slippery thought Circe.

MOR: kicking apart the poems three by three by three.

MOR: buffalo buffalo buffalo.

MOR: antihero or antizero subject to the slippery stream of wave and spin haunting our collective unconchshush with its incessant pyrotechnic strumming was promptly mistook by an aging Itty for the screaming buffalo of his recently reconciled Mozart, Circe the Irus, Circe the Blood Sun, the selfsame Circe of Opheliac lore known to the vaginals that be as bender of gods and savior of slumbers. MOR was taken aflat, for a cinquepace. Spun astray—clipped and grounded so to boom—he hung his conch in shame for a semifusa. But before Lucid B could flip the charge or tug the string, MOR cued the quanta to free the seen.

Anti-Circe spun abaft and laughed aloft the fluttering fluttering fluttering. Lucid lit up. A crux of crosses feathered his stranded sun. Lucid replayed the waving mirrors of his dearly zeroed Mozart till the rising womb cancelled the crops. The specters of his waning prince fell away and coupled with whatever they could.

synapsiliviaria of reversingingongs longing through a cosmicumulus of cracking seeds and pure blood on black velvet stanzas slick as seals in a slipstream strumming SILENCE under the nevernotgodred Pegasus wide awake and slurping up all the waving whorls still wombing forth to bomb the chamber rhombs to bloom B sea and slumber B buffalo B mutt and dove B Mozart the grand obliterator D of req and trop B horse and Hamlet butterfluxing the Plurabella Buffa from pig fat to buddhafarm blonding out the gray scales with blue forms berippling blue doors berippling blue morphs berippling black and the booming silence wombs forth to awaken a ferris wheel flashing cross the scythe.

Journius Blank probed in vain. Mutt left no note. Bones and Blanks and a wake of white. So off to Malta to knock a templed rock or two together for clues. Or riding the echoes along a long lost meridian to Rome—but first Egypt, Chichén Itzá, Tikal, Uqbar, Nibiru. From one sacred stack of stones to the next before succumbing to a grim diplacusis echoica and settling down in an unruined flatland of the Philippines to haunt the clay.

Dorothy’s three sons wept audibly with father Francis as her earthly remains were curtly interred. All three led long lives, worked hard and married fertile fems. Many Blanks bred thereafter, rippling out into the noumenal whorl like a flock of woebegone wavelengths, cloacal diversions of the field.

And your placement there dead center of delivery room mandala was no mistake. As evinced by the reversing sequence of symmetries to follow, you were born into this blip to bend—faces, feelings, colors, time—unlike most of us, the raw materials bred for blending, layering. Pigments to smear and fade. Interred beneath the shifting silt of our ancestors we are free again to feed the skein.

We remain swollen and a-sworl in the vortex of hallow matter surrounding you and your young one as you follow a ley line past the Earwicker Mausoleum to the green rhomb spinning atop our corpses. You lay down a red checkered blanket upon said rhomb and take a seat in the eye of the storm. She claims your lap and attacks a cheese sandwich. You proceed to tell her all about young Alice and the vorpal sword. Holding you flush against my bombed-out trunk I slip inside your bending eyes where wabes in wabes in wabes in rippling rainbow-wrecked polybodies in 10D blast out tonal bundles of pure light synching up the thrumthrum strings of impossible patterns wobblongonging longonewobbles—pulse is stabilizing—and there you are again (remember me?), all mimsy and a-tangle in the manxome maze, nine-eyed, toothless, waiting to unleash the vorpal Word.

⇠