THE BLIND TOPOLOGIST'S ALGEBRAIC PROBLEM
is laid out on foolscap,
representative numbers, theorems
raised as lumps on parchment
for well-trained sensing fingers
to explore, confiding what is
unknown to his footman, that
keeper of the flame, a man of
many wild talents as his barely
concealed third eye on his forehead
reveals, as well as, special knowledge
of other worlds outside our under-
standing of the nature of known
dimensions, hypothetical places
unseen but known to be as real as
impossible ones; those volcanic
in nature places where failed species
leave a legacy of spawning a bestiary
of nightmaring to be measured in
calculable generations, their life forces
spanning an ultra blue horizon as
transparent as gossamer wings, extra
lids for the nictitating shades of
evolution, shades that move so fast,
their brief existence in relation to
space time continuum is an illusion
for the eons, one so nebulous and
deeply rooted, it may never be dispelled.
SHOWING MAGRITTE'S HOUSE
after a title by Bob Hicok
The unreal estate agent
steps through
a window of clouds
into a living room
without walls
where the floors breathe
changeable as oceanic
tides
to resemble new moons
whole galaxies of stars
are falling
through-descending
debris of human
remains:
disembodied top hats
inverted umbrellas
naked clothes trees
whose hooks capture
a tidal wave
of new fallen
snow that spreads
as carpet-
an Arabian Nights-
the kind solo
instruments celebrate
in locked closets
whose ceilings are
the dancefloor
clog dancers
are exploring
with sharpened elephant
tusks fastened
to metronomical devices-
with hand carved
walking sticks
curve handled canes
blind men are
clinging to
for guidance-
the further prospectives
journey into
the interior-
the more
the cost of seeing
goes up
THE WOMAN WITH ONE BLUE HAND
is digging for
the night
crawlers that come
after hard rains
slithering in
the night soiling mud
as they flee a
certain death
by drowning
to be captured
by the unseen
hand gathering
the unwary as
she tugs
the partially risen
the reluctant ones
eschewing a
gardener's glove
for the personal
touch,
her fingers like
worms with bones
flexing
in-newly revealed
from clouds, moon
light
the sodden field
alive with a thick
black
ascendance of
night crawlers,
conqueror worms
writhing as they
rise,
electric
as eels