Dali appeared inside the reflection of the silver spoon I stepped out of the clock that was melting like cheese and then in my harlequin costume of lies and mirrors I confronted the jester with twirling moustache, who dropped his red cape, bent on one knee, and the bullish Picasso did a pas de deux. Impossible angles mirrored in the introspections. Van Gogh stuffed his pipe with a pinch of tobacco and a dram of opium from the west of Mandalay. In the cacophony of dream, church bells peeled, revelation sought from the whisper of a scarlet throated hummingbird who pierced my innocence with impossible melodies,  spun like a spire of smoke, and then the yellow fog rubbed its nuzzle against the window pane. Old Tom in rolled trousers walked on the edge of the sea and heard the mermaids frolicking near the board walks of Brighton. “If memory were time and time was lusty as desire, we would count the seconds as they dissolved like tears in an hour.” “Pish Tosh!” said Mary with umbrella flying in the wind. “Step lively!  March to the May mad march of June, tumbling backwards in the arch of reverie, a near impossible arc of time, that even Dr. Hoffman was peddling his bicycle of icicles through the streets of Basel, Lennon on the street corner Sgt Pepper band in the Gazebo by the roundabout,was playing carnival. The burlesque dancer was juggling fire. “Who cares if Paul is buried or that George is the grave digger?” It’s all about the money! Cling! Cling! Caching! Or is it the Benjamins, ain’t it? smiled the Arabesque goddess. Moon walking pedophiles, priests in drag as clerics, high wire suspended over the River Lethe, and innocents absolved in sin. Imagine if the beloved Profit was a woman with a lusty appetited for young sailors. “Raise your flag high, my young mates!” How did the indelicato coupling of Cain and Able sire a nation? “Ishkabibble!”  chanted the blind Rabbi as he walked in the ruins of Tel Aviv and danced a merry jig in the brothel of the Profit Greed. “No higher god!” As he tapped with the white cane through the rubble of the Holy Land.. Inka Dinka Do Vincent sipping abysinth, emerald green dreams swirling in the cut crystal thimble, and found himself secure and loved in the house beneath the starry dreams. “Eat fire!” said the Mad march Queen. “If love is redemption, then laughter will dance like the violet fuscia incantation.” Georgia O’ Keefe from the Ranch of Ghosts appeared with a voluptuous flower irridescent in desire. Cunning linguist that I am, I devoured each pearl of memory, and allowed that seed to melt lusciously on my tongue. But will the mermaids sing to me? And if we had world and time enough to love, would your coyness merely be the memory of laughter, or the rapturous  tingling  tintinabultion                 toe sucking                                 succulent                                                 lemon drops Dali dialed back the clock                 to One. Poured violet from the crucible and created a perfect circle Alpha to One. In the silvery introspection of time,  the spoon dangling imperfectly ….