Trumpet of the Weird

The most beautiful thing in the world is      
the graceful aging of a human mind,        
not polished of its chronic idiosyncrasies.        
        
The sculpting clock hands        
smoosh cheeks, against the weather        
in a pizza oven,        
of paper clay.        
       
Somewhere in between the nausea of a nightlight chore          
and the bubbles of water-freshening      
in convected whim,         
that a bright white eye at the curtain fault impales,        
a persistent voice clanks in autochthonous heavy metal.        
       
The cardinals we peeled from the sky,        
and the clownfish,      
remain allegiant to a foreclosed nature.      
Neon discharge        
puffs up the bed        
where we caught suburbia —        
       
with the metacarpus still knotted in numbers,        
inapplicable ones,        
whose simultaneous logical function        
teetered to Etch a Sketch.        
       
Anxiety      
is that we know too much at one time      
and the acrylics spin to black.      
The mold eats out the little sparks camped in the twisted lashes      
       
Karma Chameleons caramelize into pixels and ellipses        
by which their futures don't know their traits.        
So they loiter in the past,        
disposed to rewriting history to lubricate their dissonance with the world.        
       
But entropy        
exerts passion — which clarifies the still apoptotic human mind —  
       
which is worth embedding ourselves        
in that same incandescent dream        
that surely smokes through nerve tracts of the frontal lobe        
with Dalist propane.