I Glancing down
From a heavenly perspective,
Placing perplexities aside
And accompanied ceremoniously by beautiful botany,
Bred only on the finest of balconies.
The surveying of a
Cut out amongst the infinitely subtle curvature,
On this section of the sphere begins.
II The gray skies empty their cumbersome buckets,
All at once.
Sending most of the
To the ground to form soapy puddles,
Forcing them to fill tiny leaf-lifeboats,
That will almost certainly capsize.
III The superb storm rattles
And the much younger,
Phasing virtually every structure,
(Except the Gazebos)
…Home to an assembly of daddy long-legs
And shrouded in,
(And also protected by)
IV Out of respect for the bright lightning,
If for only just a moment,
Hypnotized in a trance of darkness.
While laying idle amongst the electrified cobwebs.
V All this commotion carefully induced by wizards,
Who sit in
The moon and its globally nomadic tides.
VI Color has become both infinite,
And extinct at the same time.
Blown in successive breaths
From the belly of a noble wind,
Corresponding closely with the
Very epitome of the universes rendition of subsequent arithmetic,
That it will take to divide
The distance between now-saturated streetlights and cracks in the sidewalk
That slowly fill and overflow like
VII Quieter now,
The fallen seeds of saplings,
Have been beaten with
Many hydrogen hammers,
And ground into a dust finer than silk,
And inundated with the former evaporation,
And are still,
Expected to grow tall,
(And remain beautiful)
Like their predecessors.
Knowing all-too-well they will still always play second fiddle,
To the recently sprouted fungus,
That gathers around the knotted-ankles
Of the already successful, older trees.
VIII The resulting humidity
Harvests hordes of insects,
That ravenously bites at the ankles of brave
On-lookers dressed in colorful-raincoats,
As they casually sip on citronella-scented margaritas,
And sit on recycled benches.
IX This is the addition of a hundred million molecules.
Supported by renewed rivers,
Minus the “sometimes” sun
By the silhouettes of seagulls.
Attempting to find the next
(That had already been discovered by the most-daring-of-doves)
That now have become a wispy web
Now devoid of water,
And the blue afternoon spiders that created them.
X At the sight of the dissipating rain,
The tap water that
Hides in faucets
In sunken stainless sinks,
Become an undrinkable poison,
Until some wise mind,
Realizes that the
Leaves of the trees will eventually shed their raindrops,
Of the more
Orange and brown robes
That autumn will certainly bring.
XI The fingers of the taller trees,
Hyper-extend to their maximum potential,
Attempting to shake hands with the celestial celebrities that
Gave them such a show.
(And such a gift)
They only smear their
With grimy stardust,
(Due mostly to inflation)
Isn’t worth quite as much as other antiquities
That the universe possesses in it’s infinite pockets.
XII This is a revival of prehistory.
A phenomenal renaissance.
And happy birthday
Stirred up into
A diluted utopia.
Whose walls are composed of
The skins of centipedes,
And embellished with caricatures of naked mermaids.
XIII Paramedic ants
Immediately carry the wounded from
The muddy battlefield,
And with no time
And bury them under
A set of rusty monkey bars,
(Joining the rest of the water under the bridge)
XIV Momentary ceasefires
Are as common
As the commotion caused by
The thunderous reverberations,
Of pennies free-falling into wishing wells,
From this display of decay.
XV Careful inspection reveals
Revealing their theoretical fourth leaf,
In plain sight
Of the voyeuristic parked cars,
That for now,
Rest their noisy motors, and
Blinding high beams.
XVI Empty flowerpots,
House the smoldering ashes
Of alternate endings,
That proved too slippery for the silver screen,
But provide an appropriate screenplay,
For the unopened
Pouch of sunflower seeds,
That only will grow in theory.
XVII A cool mist hangs over
Like a resting
(Although, there is no way to tell if the mist is right-side-up)
And the soft blue universe,
Is sleepy with countless questions,
That even the
Can’t remember the answers to.
XVIII And all throughout,
This complicated complex,
Echoes and whispers,
Bounce from building
Like a volley ball,
Over a net
Of intertwined power lines.
XIX Settling down
Only so often,
When a nearby window is opened,
And this metaphor has a chance to metabolize.
And sink into the couch,
Like a comfortable friend.
Of the erroneous ebb,
And fluid flow
Of the now fleeting thunderstorm.
That has already so-seamlessly
Moved on to another