WHOSE PAIR OF DICE?

by blake more
pairadice

listen

"I was in that heaven which receives the most of his light and I saw things which he who descends

has neither the knowledge nor the power to repeat" ---Dante, Paradiso

what is Paradiso but a jackpot moment of breath brain fire

licking the spherical lips of life

bone pink tenderness catapulting gambling pilgrims

beyond the secondhand scribe of consciousness

where words are abandoned like a groomís mind at the writhing bridal alter

her light orifice unspooled into nine orbations

both of them walking the synapsal gap up the limitless sky ladder

as far as love will take them

until more words return and they tumble back into the gray matter of honeymoon tales

two crinkled wrinkled love letter gods in a steamer trunk

spinderweb wallowing grandmaís reportcards, papaís alter boy war medals

something so immediate, so real

now reeking of mothballs and dictionaries

 

canto I

staring into Beatriceís order, I, this pilgrim, eye, sees cathode ray enlightenment

the golden globe of holywood, everywhere wood

transhumanizing souls into animal cookies

pink frosted rainbow sprinkled factory Kenuís and Juliaís to gobble up

with spice girl communion crackers spiked with cybercherries

midnight cable TV crap tables piled with million dollar corn porn chips

snake eyes as red as the vision can stand

 

canto tutu (or to the Moon)

Danteís Moon food, bottom of top sphere nebulous wonder electrode ballerinas

peeking past promises, revolving into flesh, again and again

maybe to discover why birth is necessary

why captain crunch gets soggy too quickly

why we read the lifestyle section and skip the world report

 

canto a tois

why the depressed, ex-nun bride Piccarda forgot her enterprising captain

lost her teleological order, started spouting AT&T

littering kitchen tables with dime line literature

abandoned her habit and rosery, mistook a husband for god

if only for an instant before returning, before ascending

sacrificing herself to the moon mark logo lamp of Beatrice

the angel creature Beatrice, whose photoshop conviction convinces

those who want to know but know too much about not knowing to let ourselves in

 

canto quatro

while waiting to take off from McCarran International

a pilgrim reads in Mountain Astrologer that Plato was correct

in believing pilgrim souls return to their home star state

as in "born in St Louis, silver threaded to St Louis"

no matter how many camels youíve stepped over in Daíhab or Las Vegas

it is always the giant flipped over U elevator

going up and across and down in arching people mover madness

or to paraphrase Beatrice, itís Divine Justice bending absolute will into external net worth

like what happens when you go around the corner for tequila cigarettes

and get stuck playing poker on the backside of the moon

 

canto five six, pick up shticks (as in Danteís Moons to Mercuryutroids)

on the moon only to discover your free will was skewered

and served up as salty scriptures and buy a vowel vows

at the 24 hour sacrifice and original sin barbecue

5 billion faces twisted and tied in all-you-can-eat ecclesiastic authority

but, luckily for us, our superhero flypilgrim rabbit feet work

and the pilgrim slot machine changes

loooooooooooooook ooooooooooout

here come the countless bulbs of Mercury speeding into view, third rung

red orbed Justinian desert codes Romanizing, polanski-izing life into empired art

DNA cars chasing the blest out into the open y2k imperialist fastlane

where clearinghouse sweepstakes award gazette headlines and vaudevillian strap ons

lessening beatitude, warns Beatrice

but who the fuck cares when people turn on, really turn on

virtual heaven is still heaven ainít it?

 

canto seven, ate, nine & ten (or turn up at the Mercury spiral and hit your head on Venus)

yes, Beatrice smiles in bipolar Pepsident sparkle

if the pilgrims can reformat the subliminal snake fate the gardeners ate

superconduct adam and his apple atop the apostles table

overlay the thorny crowned cornerstone of necropolis

we can all forgive that guy who came later after the crowds

had left their after garbage in the deserts and waterways and streets

Jesus, she called him, mercy and justice turning flesh

into the roulette wheel of human redemption

LAST JUDGMENT spelled out in black and red on Circus Circus billboards

as backdrop for the popemobile hood ornament informing the audience through a rubber bullhorn

that the catholic---as in generalized---body must resurrect and join the immortal soul

blind to Venusís voluptuous body soul pirouetting above his silly hat

blind to the pilgrims climbing over the white wash like cascading ants

freak pilgrims who dance in the center of the sun without church or state

where heinnas and Aquinas sing and turn in such marveled exactitude

that their harmony casts the odds, and weíre talkiní ODDS, for the rest of creation

 

canto eleven to eleven times 2

(or the spun run to the sun, Jupiter, Saturn and the Zodiac constellation station)

all may fatten if they donít stray

all may fatten if they donít stray

didnít you say, all may fatten if they donít stray

so goes the refrain radiating from the fourth sphere

the firey flambray spoked wheel of the Sun

Beatrice says the sun, the sun claims

all may fatten if they donít stray

but whoís to say the fattened wonít be boxed and sold at ivy league cult auctions

while the lean stray into double rainbow helix rose garland scoops of ice cream alchemy

which meltlessly circle each other under the glitter mascara scrutiny of inner eyeball gaze

singing pilgrim songs, dancing pilgrim dances

circling, encircling flaxen wreathes

like city sidewalk twinkle lights dangling from birch and jacaranda

innocent, still innately innocent as they pull into in the fifth sphere

the drivethrough crusader casinos of Mars

guided by Beatriceís waft tuffs of stuffed stellar dust, glow-in-the-dark Christs

emitting Latin lounge lizard hymns in torchy monk overbite tongue chants

(breathe)

yet the pilgrims donít stop, wonít stop, canít stop rapping, their words too ancient for language

even a dead romantic one, Willie B and Dali on the future sidelines

drawing families circling star jeweled nosegay boutonniere families

in consolation of Danteís historical name dropping, example setting, bitter exile elixir

just as the silvery sixth sphere of Jupiter thuds open its gold-lettered Book of Wisdom

the "mmmm" in wisdom clearing a path for the pilgrims to reach the limbs of higher justice

thrill themselves where mountains fly like molehill eagles in the wake of pagans

soar the lights till the seventh sphere of Saturn comes into view

a cloud shroud picnic of more angels, stay-in-the-carwash follow charlie angels,

their music and smiles shaded by gas rings to save mortal ears and eyes from blissplosion

[insert deafening shout, strange and thunderous]

so the pilgrims cower under the one hand clap sound of karma falling in the whirlwind lotto

bunny hop the infomercial warehouse rock shop with Beatrice

and rise up the ladder to the Fixed Star doublemint poet host constellation of Gemini

and land at the foot of an eight tiered cupcake

topped with a plastic Mary and Jesus rotating on a bible

 

canto twenty-three ska do all the way to you

(the Gemini train to Primum Mobile and Empyrean Highway)

seeing the Virgin Mary in matron mandorla drag

her downy chest hairs reaching out of her vestal neckline

doe eyes cocked in abstinent submission

the dogma ladled pilgrims canít take it anymore

and in a fit of sex positive rage, they topple the cupcake

fling Mary off the rotating bible in a collective sulfuric burp

whereby the bible self combusts, leaving a thoroughbred track of fire

which catches Maryís skirt and ignites her sex drive

so in a colossal clitoralrific orgasm, they all erupt into the ninth sphere

the Primum Mobile, the hip, halo deck, high roller VIP suite

where the pilgrims bump and grind to the grooviest

hosanna glory be to god in the highest peace be with you beat since the big bang

dancing as Beatriceís nimbus stands straight up in paternal erect- if-eradication

and looking like Eros in feathers she demands, she demands

that the pilgrims pledge their allegiance to Divine Knowledge

the pilgrims, thinking she wants them to evoke the martyred saint of John Waterís

immediately go ma ma mao mao ma ma mao mao

circling Beatrice and her band of angels three times

in a synchronized cancan genuflect turned topless showgirl strut

as the celestial divas purr the coltrain quatrain faith-hope-promise-love in perfect tune time

to the lap dancers riding St. Peter, St. John, St. James and St. Gregory

now Cheshire grinning in the blacklight bar of judgment dayglow

can you hear the rat packed chocolate cherubs crooning, Holy, Holy, Mole

Listen to us Brotherís and Sisters

now itís not long till humankind changes its course and

realizes the general disorder down there on earth is due to the fact

that you canít legislate freedom, canít tie it to the dock of ebay

and let it twist in market flam-sham-wind-whim and pray that some truth comes of it

ANGELS ARE STARVING cause some CEO looking out godzilla buildings

told them red wasnít delicious, that a McIntosh keeps you dry

that granny smith has crabs and only oinment.com keeps you safe

But they donít know, donít know what Dionysius was up to

when he revealed the Abby Road

backordered the nine orders of angels and elected John, Paul, George and Ringo

as defacto governors of the nine spheres

made them magical mystery tour parish chefs of group soul soup

made us all come together in beyond bacchanalian nougat fondue of pure love

Yes, letís raise a shopless center for the nuclei promise of our very own Empyrean rose garden

we all live by subversive means, subversive means, subversive means

and we escape suburbia like a river of grower pilgrims

floating down the white lightening boogie borealis

into a cobalt stone mosaic mandala of distinct petals spoked from our central Self

as in our once one language, I Babylon self who evokes the Happyland Arena

Christed shmisted, believing not believing never thieving or deceiving receiving

St. Lucy, Queen vagina and her court of merry drooling fools

setting our comedy delve arty farty in quarking motion

directing our playground prayers into the pendulant body axis

Cum letís face the graces to feat our journey through this Hell Purgatory Paradiso

to a nouvou Dante bare boned, null denominational world

flash welded into a sudden, single marching drum unified daily three

the feather, the song and the honey toast together

gazing, lazing upward through the pilgrimís miiiiiiiiiiinnnnnd

illuminated by the big spin win

stained glass truth granting a window of sight, tight sight

were all bets are on the house that love built baby

"Here vigour fail'd the tow'ring fantasy:

But yet the will roll'd onward, like a wheel

In even motion, by the Love impell'd,

That moves the sun in heav'n and all the stars."

Or, as Einstein said, "God doesnít play dice with the universe"

 

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