i lives in an om let

i want an omlet  a big honkin one so stuffed with cheese i turn into a gooey hypersphere that rolls around the world and flattens the forests

in the year before the year that wasnt i ventures into the smoke on a quest for eggs and finds only the remnant of unheard screams and it is there i falters  neither wanting to forage through the heaps of grains of remnants of screams nor return to its maze in the sky and there dream about quests for eggs and i totters stupidly on a lost axis of itself and if there are any other egg pilgrims sojourning nearby i cannot see them for the thick grey joke that used to be the air

the omlet as i see it in my dreams has many waving limbs and though no heads many eyes on bright tentilla that blind me with their brightness and rather than being stuffed with cheese it is with humans and i dont eat it but it me and become a waving limb and stalked eye

as granny i used to say the rancour of the medium rivals the gait of the kinkajou therefore one purloins as a vitality the guttered citation  she said it as a yolk i think but for granny the distinction between weight and mirth was as fragile as an eggshell

i wish you wouldnt keep talking about eggs

ill talk about motels then

no  motels are scrambled omlets

in the maps not on the maps i clambers mount digitalia on a quest for motels and finds only a dissolute civilization drunk on a soiled bed and it is there i flounders like a cracked soufflé  unable to comprehend the erudition of the sot and equally incapable of descending to an allegory i stares into thick hazes of itself and laughs at the incapacity of the holy and vital lands to stand against the force of meaning

i used to dream of soufflés so much i married one in vegas when i was young and stupid and wise and threw away things as if i were the sum of carnivals but my spouse was empty and too in love with emptiness i left deflated and staggered into asphyxiations of myself

as granny i used to say the ghosts of the temple fatten dreams therefore one takes as a minuend those with the fewest toys  she says it as a wight might but for granny any divide between the under and overworlds is as insubstantial as pileipelles

i wish you wouldnt keep talking about granny

ill talk about el mot then

no  el mot is scrambled granny

were hefty and abundant like pseudohyphae

who among the beasts would strike us down

the heart of the caesura enters the clavier of truth

therefore one retreats as a fudge cake to discarded attenuations

we tincillate from the claws of clouds to pereve and adam

the door to the invisible is visible

the index of the dead veils the vortex of the image

therefore one enters as a radicand kaleidoscopes of privation

thanks to mixter lezama and the uncountables

at the whims of

revolutionaries evolutionists volitionists

managers entrepreneurs novelists

scholars gods names

tyrants smiles