Automatic Transfiguration Conquistadorian

Automatic Transfiguration Conquistadorian

The bells in my head are ringing; the vibrations shake the dust. The twilight sings. I'm on a hill between nowhere and Olympus. Earth moans, the horizon
is on fire. I want to dance like a drunken groom, I want to dance like Tevye from Fiddler On The Roof. I want to kick out the jams, Jellyroll.



Turning in circles like Julie Andrews in The Sound Of Music, I grope the Nazi wind's naked breast and lick the sweat from her lips. Her face is wet with tears of sound. She's beginning to look a lot like Christ on the cross-town Expressway.

Earth moans, the horizon is on fire. I'm not one of Santa's helpers, I'm a blind soldier of doom, I'm auditioning for a role in a police line-up. Too bad I'm cracked up, spinally. Stargazing is for dreamers, I cry to the hills lapping at my feet like dogs.

The moaning changes to a hum. The orchestra hasn't been paid. Feed the string section to the wolves. Where are the strippers and dwarves? Whose back alley is this? Where do I sign? This is a bird's wing, not a broken bottle, biddy biddy bum.

The Little Drummer Boy inside my head drums me to my knees on this dance floor of death, I fall into the lap of dusk, I roll down the hill toward the songheart, gathering speed and crushing the breath of words where the sun falls to its knees in the welcoming dust.

copyright A. Ray Norsworthy, 1999