lingering spirit darkness

"Compose on the tongue, not on the page." Lawrence Ferlinghetti

a great circular cloud in the shape of a donut ringed
above me with a calm eye staring from the center -
an electrically-charged halo with brilliant-white
fingerszapping from the cloudy, circular, misty mass
to the dry, desert earth - broad, massive bolts burned
afterimages onto my retinas as a snarling wind rippped
in circles around and through me, the surging current
jailed me with the sweltering, suburban, summer
night sweating salt out from the porous sand, a musty scent
of pre-rain coagulated with damp sage and juniper leaves
in the silent arc, the booming sounds of thunderclaps
radiated out from the center, deafly hushing my ears
and my blood sizzled as high-voltage juice flowed
into my crown, exciting synaptic delight with mirthful
wonder and awe, and my flesh tingled as freight trains sped,
sped down the tracks behind me with the ghost of Woody
Guthrie grinning and waving from each boxcar skidding
across the rails, screeching and careening, as a cloud
billowed directly overhead into the bust of Thor - arms
outstretched into the night, hands open, palms up - and bolt
after lightning bolt jaggedly illuminated an Andy Warhol
caricature of a Norman Rockwell portrait - Timothy Leary's
wildly grinning countenance - and I sand painted an ancient,
native night with tomorrow's lingering spirit darkness