Against the backdrop
Of light from
A cup of pens begins to glow,
And becomes a basket of fruit,
A coffee cup,
Filled with pens,
(While ostensibly lacking in erasers.)
Not with coffee,
Not with energy.
Proposes a rhythmic speculation,
To the glittering constellations.
And to the archaic few who still read the paper on Sundays.
What once was
A cup of pens,
Completely capable of outlining Andromeda in her entirety.
So very proficient in the process
That tape-measures recoil like ashamed rattlesnakes.
But disguised as a basket of fruit,
This manger of pens.
Becomes a cornucopia,
Bursting with both
Flashes of secondary
That carpool together to observe an intermediate symposium,
While regrettably forgetting the synopsis of symbolism,
On the bureau,
Back at home.
Whose very composition,
Is almost exactly identical to most fruits,
Down to their very genomes.
Down to the number of seeds.
Down to their very core.
These temporary pens become so much more.
In the perspective of specters.
Stroke by stroke,
Step by step,
(Across some very hot-coals)
They have the ability to reach out to a world,
(Sometimes without the use of fancy words)
(Or high-definition pictures)
And produce dreams
Armadillos that scurry across busy intersections,
To dig in secret gardens.
And demonstrate to the rest of everything,
A basket of unusual fruit,
A basket of inherent implements,
Has no problem,
Shouldering the load,
Like a hitchhiking tramp,
(Thumb pointed towards the horizon.)
That existence isn’t measured by
& other various resistances.
Simply being recognized as sweet or sour,
So long as they
Can be held,
Can be cradled
Only a certain way,
That only the bosom of the supple curtains can provide,
(While still blocking out the sun)
And held by the exceptional grip of
The write hands.
The same hands.
The same fingers.
The same knives.
That writhe like earthworms,
That aggressively clamor on,
About being put back into the ground.
Away from the dangerous canopy.
And the hungry canaries.