Heaven’s invisible ink,
angel names fingered backward
on the steamy
sky window, shooting stars—
whatever you call them—
they were but now are not.
Their icy spark flashed
unisoned meaning
to the few neck-craning
thousands whose black
was illuminated,
just for a moment.
In this context Zappa
makes perfect sense:
Cosmik Debris
with gospel back-up
proves chaos is not random,
but a deep baritone in the abyss,
a butcher guru’s crystal ball
reluctantly caressed.
But don’t take him
too seriously. His Guitar Wants
to Kill Your Mama, after all.
I’m the Slime,
you’re Peaches en Regalia
bouncing a Levi stride
to cut-up keyboard melodies.
What else is there to do?
Let’s dance like fools,
the Earth will soon bake
dry by the expanding sun.
LOCATION: Mayocc, Peru
