When the absolute night imploded

from a sheer excess of boredom and sameness,

when the highest pitch could grow no higher

the fattest cow no fatter

the meanest dog no meaner

the saddest song no sadder

and the drunkest lord of all no drunker,

when the dervish projects were finally completed

and the laundry carefully folded for the last time

and the few remaining invisible haloes

winked out in a darkness thicker than coal

it was a moment for the mystery of lines

of caves and sunlight

wombs and the sentimental bebop rooms

of mothers who might have been angels

faster than the speed of light


who might have invented the first music

who might have seen the original color

who might have shed the tear

that became an ocean,

who might have uttered the first word

and laughed the laugh

that caused the apoplectic happenstances of birth

to become a torrent touches and dreams,

and the pitiful desperation of logic

to shatter itself with its own echoes and conundra

upon the skulls of the unborn actors

waiting for the unborn audience to appear

somewhere there in the hypnagogic wilderness

where it all supposedly started. 



All images and text copyrighted.  All rights reserved.    Copyright 2002 David Wiley.