Provocations of the Unequivocal

Why is every door an unexpected covalent capture
the ground liquefying with every hesitation
the blink of prey lost to contemplative cogitation
my reflex some unaccounted coefficient of 
a sinus rhythm lost to a recursive redshift
all the puddle waves are converging as if 
my anxious haste gathered them just prior to
the next differential frame of breathing in
the coagulating vibrations that focus into my name
forced through interferometric mindslits onto
a quicksilver retinal conversion to corpuscular
cleavage into some fast fourier hormonal tickle
that my olfactory blooms into stained memories 
roseated to a flush of spinal spastic revertebrating
still balanced on my heeling recoil and trigger
resetting after the obligatory refractory weightlessness
when the universe blinks into ultimate non-existence 
before reversing its own tunnelvision collapse
as if playing it cool made it never happen
another doorknob firmly stuck in my sweaty palm 
just relax and tarry in the shifting snowblindness
because the rollercoaster is tipping into apogee
the swirl of polar oxygen lost to a rusting moon
hold back the boiling cascade of desiderata 
let your diaphragm linger in eddies of anticipation
dripping from the widowed nape of a peachfuzz neck
close your eyelids, slam your eager ears shut
swallow your flaring nostrils and deflate your tongue
for the bed only spins when you lie down and
expect it to belie then defy its natural inclination:
stillness is but a fermata of swollen stigmata,
worship while you can, for we are all falling into 
prisms, those energetic meatgrinders that make
sausage so savory with those little bits of tasty matter
poolside condiments for the orchestral wavepool 
souls dappling in what can only be called heaven
the earthless cauldron percolating dark matter grinds
to wake the hydra of infinite intentionalities finding
their form blooming into hydrations of heavy metals
and pale yellow fluorine clouds with euonymus berry
concretions that intensify before fading to orpiment
or mango leaf cow urine paint* to make moons in the
starry night for romantic souls to pine over
surrending to the howl of unknown erotic entanglements 
one more acanthus curl on the baroqueness of it all
and the perpetual accretions of this quasaric engine 
or the next that we call our single-turnt world
though such a singularity defies all the diversities
of expression impressed upon its cosmic canvas
for in the end, all there is is a lack of equivalence.

*Van Gogh used Indian Yellow to paint the moon in Starry Night.