The shores of chartreuse are beckoning.
All surreal roads lead to heaven’s gate.
Laughing horses and flying mushrooms on brooms
filter through the cellophane
of my brain stem.
Words and measures are limited.
We’re looking for art that’s infinite.
We are bound by our media,
our processes, and our methods.
No one wants to plod through creation
but to lift up on wings of expression.
The realities of trash day
can be tempered
by the green caterpillar
on this apple core.
He raises his front legs
Does consciousness know all?
I intend him no harm.
He crawls up my arm.