Strange beauty of love
Strange beauty of tears
Strange beauty of madness

Strange beauty of perfect lunar madness 
soaring high as a sigh
above the radiant nipple sun

Howl all you want, but no one listens, at most they only hear the 
howling, the fine gradations of love and feeling, pain and 
conclusions, nonsense, wonder, inside each note of the polyphonic 
howl are eternally lost, lost, lost

Instantaneous beauty strikes with abandon, it had nothing to 
abandon, it wanders through negro streets at dawn and, love, it 
understands nothing, love

Vexation of love
Vexation of soul
Vexation of mind and eye

Strange beautiful vines and flowers grow tall in my garden, in the 
garden of my nonsense, where I stand always totally alone

I wait for you to come and offer me another flower – a different 
color, a new shape, something that isn't the same as my nonsense – 
your own nonsense, darling

Is it delirium that my nonsense and yours 
together could form 
some kind of transcendent sense?

So far it hasn't occurred, 
through 33 years in the teeth of death

I sit, alone,
in my garden of nonsense,
Lusting for women's bodies

I sit, alone,
in  my garden of nonsense,
Dreaming strange kinky dreams

I sit, alone
in my garden of nonsense,
Wondering why I'm wondering, wondering 

I sit, alone,
in my garden of nonsense
envisioning scenes of cryptopornographic madness,
what if I had sex with you 
while your body was turned inside out
and your innards were dripping on my – yuk!

I sit alone, 
in my garden of nonsense,
thinking of you sitting by the window,
looking out for something
wonderfully unspecified,
looking out for something what

I sit alone,
in my garden of nonsense,
breeding transnihilistic orchids,
waiting for you to offer me love

I sit alone,
in my garden of nonsense
formulating equations for the logic of mind,
which are predominantly correct
of which I'm very proud

I sit alone,
in my garden of nonsense
reading books and extracting meanings
interpolating wildly
creating what I don't understand

I sit alone,
in my garden of nonsense

My wife, alone, in her garden of nonsense,
Oiling her skin
Breathing the atmosphere
Celebrating her lungs

You, dear, reader,
alone in your garden of nonsense
Squeezing ideas and dreams
from these words –
So alive in my mind,
so inert on the computer screen or the paper --

If I walk long enough through my garden 
Will I reach somebody else's –
Yours, perhaps, dear reader?

The best I can do is to send you dried flowers,
pale imitations of the blossoms of my garden,
And you can try to revive them
adding magical water
but you'll inevitably fail, fail, fail
With luck you'll take the dead dried husks
as inspiration
and use them to guide your own flower breeding,
your garden may imitate some of the best features
of mine, hopefully avoiding
the worst

But is that all that's possible?
Can't it occur, through a close enough communion,
that two gardens fuse into one?

The flowers of  my inner cosmos 
to wrap their stems around yours
as our bodies enwrap each other
in love and lust –
isn't it possible?
Or no?
Flowers crossfertilize, breed
new ones, new
species of being and becoming,
crystallized around the germ of dangerous
whimsical imaginative
love?

That's really my question

Can the universe move backwards
toward its primary state
in which there was only one garden?

The Bible has it wrong, as we've seen
The Garden of Eden wasn't destroyed,
It's still there inside everyone
The garden was sliced and diced!

The Garden as a whole was wild meaning incarnate,
The fragmentary gardens created by slicing it
have lost all their meaning,
they are gardens of nonsense,
howling and screaming,
understanding nothing,
weaving weird words of madness,
confusing love, infatuation, lust, equations, nakedness, perfection, 
error, god, parents, teeth, sanity, madness, employment, passion, 
everything, nothing, computers, words, why why why why and why 
not?

And so, alone in my garden I sit,
Alone in my garden of nonsense,
Loudly awaiting your impossible love
Howling vexations of madness, sadness, gladness, clitoral explosions, 
soul corrosions, deluded visions, cranial incisions, weird women in 
my brain, strange beautiful big brained big pained beasts, on my 
flesh they feast – Howl!  Howl!  Howl!  madness of love, Holy fucking 
madness howl wonder howl holy fucking madness dreams, vexed 
howl by love, howl holy fucking madness dreams

Strange beauty of characters invented
to dramatize internal delusions,
presenting everything simply and plainly,
when in reality it's far more tangled 
than even ten billion words could depict

Strange beauty of time
that comes in fits, sparks and slices –
There is no real continuum:
there only are moments,
each with its own flavor,
moving, twisting and jerking around

Strange beauty of my nonsense garden
some small portion of which
is killed on these pages

Strange beauty of your nonsense gardens
which I've never
had the pleasure to know

Transcendent beauty of the imaginary moment
when our nonsense gardens come together
and new species of love flowers are formed

Strange beauty of approximate transcendence
which is perfect in the moment it's formed

I sit alone in my nonsense garden,
but you're here,
if only I imagine I see you

If only I imagine
with sufficient virility
I can see you sitting there –
Yes, right there

Smiling next to me,
In your Calvin Klein figleaf
You're the most beautiful thing
I've ever seen

I can't understand
why I didn't fabricate you before?

I'll call you "Tatyana."
No, "Gwen."
"Melissa"?
"Papaya"?

I'll call you the teeth of the nothing.

Come on, nibble my skin.   
I don't mind if it hurts a little.  
Come on, nibble my skin.

I sit, alone,
in my garden of nonsense,
Lusting for women's bodies

I sit, alone,
in my garden of nonsense,
imagining love and love

Love is real, and I have it
I have people who love me
and I love them
Things that I love to do
Filled up with love, love, love

Strange beauty of approximate transcendence
which is perfect in the moment it's formed

But still, there's something missing, ever missing, and for this in my 
garden I wait.

I've felt the moments of true transmission, living flowers cast from 
one world to another, preserving their wonder and life.

But my soul is a high-maintenance transcendental organism -- I need 
a thousand times more --

I, the author of this ridiculous work, find that my most deep and 
true moments have come from my children – my three beautiful 
children – who come to me with such innocence and grace – even in 
their obnoxiousness and silliness, obsession with Pokemon cards, 
video games, fussing and whining, crying, neurosis over food, desire 
to play with me when I'm working and then ignore me when I come 
to play, squabbling and babbling, human prosaic realities, endless 
dishwashing and laundry, at the core of it all there's a beauty, an 
immediate connection that penetrates beneath all the filth, all the 
chaos and randomness, an essence that's determined to pound on 
through, that brooks no doubt at all, a purity of love and 
connection: they speak to me and I'm there, we're there, we're in 
the same moment, we're in the same reality, we're in the same 
nonsense garden.  It doesn't matter who else or where else or what 
or why.  

I wait for you to come to me and, like my children, offer me another 
flower – an orchard of flowers – alive in different colors and shapes,  

Your own diversity of nonsense, 
your own small universe of wild proto-sense?

Is it delirium that my nonsense and yours together
could form some kind of transcendent sense?

Perhaps this happens in your mind as you read these words I've 
tapped out here

Who am I to say which flowers are dry and which are living?   It's 
really up to the flowers.

I, the author of this ridiculous work, have a beautiful wife Gwen who tastes  like papayas, with whom I 17 years ago first coupled out of mad 
dubious love.  We've gotten together terribly, and wonderfully.  I've 
acted badly; she's acted worse (of course, she might dispute this; in 
fact, she  definitely would dispute this).  I love her very much.  We've 
nearly  gotten divorced twice.  If we'll still be together when (if 
ever) these words are published, I really don't know.  We're getting on 
fine right now.  There are moments sitting with her talking, or lying there in bed holding her as she goes to sleep or wakes, up, when 
everything is perfect, golden and glowing, when there's just one garden 
in which speech is superfluous, and everything is contained in a touch 
or a glance.  It's not sexual, it's not personality, it's not really 
anything, it's just a genuine connection that pops up when you're not 
expecting it, that binds you together into a single experiencer, into 
one collective moment, and then goes away without ever vanishing or 
knowing that it existed.    It doesn't happen with her nearly as often 
as it does with the kids, but it happens and when it does there's an 
extra electricity which comes from the fact that she's more different 
from me, she's not a part of me spun off, she's my opposite pole, 
magnetically clung to me for an instant and then other forces yank her 
away, usually other forces in her forebrain, but occasionally her 
medulla oblongata (or the pixies in the Van Allen belt).  I need this 
electricity.  I need more of it, more, more, more.  Can I get more of it 
from her? – I don't think it's impossible.  But I don't think anything 
is impossible.  Some people call me an optimist; my wife sometimes calls 
me a pessimist.   Do I really need more, or more?  At this point, I, the 
author of this ridiculous work, don't call myself, not very much anyway.


Holy!  Holy!  Holy!  Holy!  Holy!
These words they are holy, your eyes they are holy, my garden of 
nonsense is holy, everything is holy, holy.  Every woman I've ever 
lusted for, real and imaginary, is holy, holy, holy, holy!   Everyone 
I've ever spoken to is holy!  Every molecule of air I've ever breathed,
or breathed.   Every idea that's every lived inside me, crawled out and 
sought another life.  There's nothing that isn't holy, and being 
unholy is holy.   Howl, O vexation of love; howl, O vexation of love; 
howl, O vexation of love, of love!

I, the author of this ridiculous work,
sit here holy in my nonsense garden
Appreciating the glory of your presence
Occasionally wondering if it's illusory
But then it doesn't matter
Sometimes it's such a glorious dream

And writing these words, 
it's a strange kind of perfection
And designing software or writing equations embodying 
the inventions of my mind,
it's a strange kind of perfection
And creating music, chords, scales and melodies, that veer close 
to the soundscapes of my subliminal waking dreams,
it's a strange kind of perfection
It's a kind of communion with the real,
not a fusion of two individual nonsense gardens,
but an opening up of my nonsense garden to the world as a whole,
allowing it to spurt gases up into the atmosphere
and suck back gases in return,
become part of the ecosystem, 
the nine-dimensional Gaia of universal cognition,

The world is the dreamer whom I dream dreams my dreams – 
Holy!  Holy!  Holy!

Vexation of the imperfection of existence
Vexation of perfect satisfaction that gives way 
to frustration and need
Vexation of you who tempt me with secret promises 
of what no one can give

Vexation of love
Vexation of beauty strange
and loving mind

I, the author of this ridiculous work,
sit here in my nonsense garden,
wondering why I type these words,
wondering if I'm really waiting for you to come
and bring me impossible love
or if I'm waiting for my mind to finally realize
that impossible love is here

I, the author of this ridiculous work,
sit here in my nonsense garden,
alone or not alone,
depending on interpretation

I, the author of this ridiculous work,
sit here in my nonsense garden,
being and being and being
goes on, on and on
and on

I, the author of this ridiculous work,
sit here in my nonsense garden,
not knowing how to end
because beginnings and middles and endings are illusory
and then amazed I see