strange dance, this

strange dance, this:

new-car smell riding my own personal jetstream from the dash to the backseat, interrupted repeatedly as thoughts triangulate and Mountain Peak themselves into almost physical form

Gas
clutch brake --> PEAK!

Radio
volume balance --> PEAK!

Angry
should've could've --> PEAK!

Homily
father son --> PEAK!

River
pine smell --> PEAK!

the Homunculus loves this shit, of course;
he has big wave surfed off the cerebellum and onto my shoulder,
and laughs at my entreaties of permission, belief and faith
~fuck 'em all there's boarding to do!~

and board he does -

fresh snow off Mt. Gas into the ravine between
Mts. River and Angry
back between the eyebrows before a full 360 and glancing landings
on Mts. Homily and Radio
before returning to my shoulder,
adjusting a podium, and
beginning his soliloquy

the Peaks don't take well to his ramblings,
which are mostly to do with efforts to throw up calcified
tollbooths between the Peaks,
turning thoughts into his private chattel-ed reverie that
looks free but is really just Control in Drag

then, the rain arrives
~not a minute too soon or a second too late;
fat pregnant raindrops explode and trail down the windshield;
limbs of their river systems geographying the
glass with a telos that would make Darwin blush

and now the pock pock pocking from the roof and windows,
as the atmospheric quiver looses its load into gods tattoo ~
arrhythmic voices singing now, glottal syllables into sentences
into books that stack themselves from the front seat to the back,
pinning me in the drivers seat and putting the front windows down…
and all the books’ spines are broken
as paged paths are laid along secret lay lines not restricted to the horizontal;
chapter after chapter reaching through the wood's woulds and reaching upwards where the
stars and moon and sun are the new trinity,
the only peak that matters now,
as my new tower of Babel reaches higher and higher
exploding in lilac arches that fill the air with fragrance surrender and wonder

and the rain is just one secret language, the rivers and wind and snow and dust and heat are all adding their epistles to this text;
this new writing that whispers to the poets,
gasps its last in literalist's screeds, and sires children in music and lore and finger painting and cathedrals and the speaker's stick around the fire in the hut on the edge of the savannah

and i am left in this great Pending and Letting
to gather as much prose as i can
from the rain and the heat and the moon and the dustdevils
~score it as best I can
so it can play for the next strange dance