This body
is a roundabout way
up to this crossroads of time
and place;
the needle point of existence,
reality shrinking
into a vanishing point,
smoking
with thoughts of thoughts,
like traces of neutrino
in deep water tanks
in the mountains

I cross my arms
and hear the machine hum,
while the quivering thoughts,
held at bay,
rustle and tingle;

Hoagy Carmichael kicks the Buddha gong
and I pick my finger nails
with the point of my Faber Castell pencil,
leaving the computer unconnected
to that electric giant
looming on the grid,
hungry
to scroll down the scrolls of the day
in flickering flocks of fragments,
falling like angels from above,
like Armageddon flakes of prayers

Yes, the day is up my ass,
enlightening my intestines
with un-called for koans,
glowing with eddies of evil
under the heat shields of my eyelids,
my fingertips red-hot with morse-coding;
sparks of heat
at arm's length distance,
sleep still purring at the back of my mind,
some ltrs drppng off the wrds,
good for Stephen Hawkins T-shirts

Let's Dance!
Do the Loco-Motion!
Let's Twist Again

I empty my coffee cup
just to get to the bottom (of things)

It's good morning time in Swedenland!