Chickens, cows, humans, machines and God.
This organized chaos is the epicenter of life.

My memory marches, parades into synapses
of silken summers surrounded by surreal sense dances.
In the midst of a hundred-head fragrance factory farm,

flies as thick as black snow squalls
whirl around a plethora of piles of piquant cow dung and
lemon-tart tangy essences of spicy silo corn.

When whiffed, this squooshed sweet and sour smell
snaps my sinus lining inside out,
slaps, then clicks my olfactory hairs to attention.

Subsequent to thunderous torrents of boiling rain,
camouflaged candlesticks of orange salamanders slip, slither, slide
from under overturned decayed cicada cages of forest floor rocks.

Restless on my wrist,
newts parachute, plummet and wiggle-whip
beneath a bouquet of rotting leaves.

Sensory spectacles at dusk,
the clamorous Catskill,
melodious mountain cricket drone,

deep, dark, exploding sky spilling
millions of fluorescent fireflies
that light my way.

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