John Biscello

What would it be like

to immerse fully

in glory-be,

the phoenix

scatting heraldic

firewalk bop

through a veil of scattered ashes,

a sound bath

comprising a plasmic cake

of purple bubbles

and mint slather,

what would it be like

to dissolve swimmingly

into a dance beyond distance

and worldly concerns,

as you flirt with Eternity’s

starriest fox,

a pinwheeling conglomerate

of molecules, dreams and dust,

spelling out the bones of love,

its play-siege,

in a necklace of smoldering cursive,

what would it feel like

to trespass freely,

to grasp the liquidy Gorgon tresses

of the numinous,

the manifold tentacles

of nightsong,

as you swing wildly

to a ballroom blitz

of pure unfettered harmony,

held batingly aloft

between one spiraling breath

and the next?