Unpaginated

Orchestrating violins thru whisky sky         clouds slide like billiard balls         a Jackie Gleason-Fats Domino         ricochet off greener velvet;         my pheasant escaping snow.         Jack Ketch the hangman         in brilliant plumage,         a touch of Borgia in         long, murderous hands.         The light of Capone in         steeple-dark eyes         running like a         haunted ship         around the white, facial disc.         Offset. Bold type.         I see you through pages         of my history book         only you're unpaginated.         Unclench the fist,         watch for effervescent islets,         erotic mounds of Venus or         protuberances called Marquesas         off my left hand.         Omens are the cloth         of dreams, scissors         used to open sky.         Work out cosmic debts -         figure stone footprints on Hollywood Blvd.         en route to Tijuana for a start;         I should have been Buddha incarnate         or curator at the Hermitage,         wild shaman for the Arapaho         not a cocoa butter salesman         from New Jersey, nagging         soda-jerk in L.A.         'bout the time         of Marilyn Monroe's         quick magic.         The Almighty unpacking orange crates,         sending Florida cold         unravelling karmic debt,         brass studs in your eye         mowing suckers with your scythe;         Birthpath urge, Father Time,         de-gutting chickens at Pleasure Farms         looking to Hindoos for clues         (placing roaches on a lucky few.)         This hurdle over stones         crass fortitude ensemble,         strange melange         spewing nails,         elbows round thin pain         gutter cathedral looming into view         where there         is more viscera than mirth before         ripples of enchantment         cause vibrations at four         and the phrenology         of universal measure         is a moon         ribcage in light          - gazelle of trees         a dinosaur in height.