Sandman Express IV

Read Sandman Express, Parts I, II, and III.

i never imagined it would all 
disappear this way, a grove of 
	floating oranges 
and sapphire giraffes, an 
acre of magic grass that shone
like an eyeful of diamonds
out the busted windows of 
the Sandman, that harbinger of 
technicolor dreams, while the
old hippie wizard and i chugged along 
to “Midnight Rider,” under a river and 
over a forbidden cloud to another 
mad vision that burst in our arms
like a pinhole in a
	florescent bubble

it was a short circuit in a
	cosmic fairytale 
as that rogue cab car plowed 
through a field stacked with windmills 
and purple flamingos
like some kind of mechanical 
	sidewinder 
till it came to a halt just 
left of center, south of a hut made of 
seaweed and clay, a green beacon in a
	cotton candy haze

and outside sat a man—oranges
circling overhead like eight dozen 
	electric saucers
or a turntable perched on a cloud—
and he, like some kind of 
	voodoo child 
	vinyl junkie 
	sorcerer
	hedonist 
spinning Grand Funk Railroad and 
slinging a Pimm’s Cup in a 
	giant fishbowl

pay attention, he says, handing me and my
bearded mystic pal a couple of ice cold lagers,
you’re here for the same reason as 
everyone else—even if you don’t know it—
it’s the seeds of your heart 
that sew your story and 
right now you’re seeking the
	impossible star
the flicker of light that hangs above this 
	dank orange grove 
on the sunny side of every midnight
and sets these oranges flapping 
their wings like a bunch of 
	wild-headed holy ghosts
*puts on a pair of Maui Jims and lights a cigar*

you were always some kind of wonderful
and you got a duty to yourself to spend your life
climbing constellations and seeking stars
but don’t work so hard at it that you 
	become blind to your own magic
*takes a slug of his fishbowl and 
grabs onto a high-flying grapefruit*
you live in a world that works day and night to 
	tunnel your vision
and your routines are the gateway to your
	discontentment
mundanity, he says, is a formidable illusion
now—write this down if you need to ‘cause 
this is the key to it—to be the artists of our lives 
is to consistently choose 
	beauty over banality
by making the everyday extraordinary, that’s 
how we begin reaching for a 
	higher level of consciousness
it’s a trick of the eyes, he says, 
seeking the right values is 
	seeing the world differently

*peels off his shades and spins a record on his 
forefinger like an electric top* 
Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band, 
practicing his night moves while those 
	winged fruit-tops 
whirled faster than a hoard of giant teacups 

and just as i got thinking we 
should’ve brought helmets
that prickly-eyed magician shot up 
his hands like two great matches 
full of fire and suddenly 
	the music stopped
and a whole grove full of oranges 
beat the ground like a rain of 
	dandelion drums