It is Not Icarus

It is not Icarus who flies in the visions of a youth reaching past his youth for wings sticking out of the sun. It is himself, blond boy twirling a hula hoop in an equatorial field: the horse latitudes of oceanic whirling.

His eyes are twin suns. The field is fenced with a fence made of dolphins. His skin is more brilliant than a hundred cities of god on fire.

He is Ra, Apollo, Dionysus masquerading as a struggling bohemian, a bum at the beach. Yet he dreams he is a waking dream of brotherhood. A dream cannibalizing his own faith, the flesh and blood of his yearnings.

He is raven dove peacock hummingbird. Darling of the beatitudes no less than the nightmares in his belly. He is memory and incarnation of the love that has been, is and will be for the world’s outcasts. Artists related by blood to moon stars flowers, and by madness to each other.


Out of the alchemical sea the homunculus rises to the stature of an overnight sensation to tell us, “All worlds, being mystery and phenomena, emanate from our bodies.”

He is wounded by flowers though he builds cities out of granite. Cities like those buried deep in prehistoric marshes and storyteller’s childlike hearts. His claim to gold is vindicated when prosperity has asphyxiated the jungle.

Revolutionary tailors patch the ozone. Skies of topaz set in amethyst are worn on fingers once dedicated to conquering Mars . . .

Like a pearl in an oyster shell, he has made of earth and water an opalescent destiny. It was sculpted by tropical storm winds, painted by rare birds who use their plumage as magic wands.

These pieces are from A Horse on the Moon and Other Dreamprose, by Max Randolph, published March 2012, empty sky press. Available on, under ten dollars. (Or contact for a signed copy. Cost: ten dollars, includes shipping. Check only please.)