Leftover stones

At one point,

A formidable patio.

Laid out like a chess board,

Minus the


& Castles

& Other

Obligatory obligations.

26 stones deep,

Whose original origin

Lies  somewhere at the bottom of a vacant canyon,

Among the deposits of timeless   quartz and  the

 Formidable masses of calcium.

& the  discarded brochures,

(That somehow outnumber phonebooks)

Each varying in content,

While still remaining content,

 Constantly waiting  for passing comets.

The cracked rectangle,

Appears to be

(At least  to some)

Stacked higher than  the pyramids.

(If only for a moment)

This is a heavy blanket over soft earth.

Laid and then forgotten.

Laid and then,

Stepped on.

…By angels,

Who do not heed “Wet-cement” signs.

A concrete desert,

Disguised as a  backyard oasis.

This is where the sleepy garden hose coils up,

Absorbing both applause and sunlight.

It’s brass head,

Burning hot,

Under the unrelenting  sun,

But not quite aflame.

Not yet aflame.


Where the porch light constantly flickers,

& eventually goes out…

Leaving behind  scores of confused arthropods

While attracting herds of



(Whose eyes are like lenses)

(Whose spines resemble xylophones)

This substantial stage

Suited for



As well as a casual brunch.

Regardless of the outdoor occasion

  Standing  tiki torches,

 Secrete clouds of citronella,

That will only momentarily pacify any persistent mosquitoes that

Come more often than any August rain.

Also present,

(Among the swarms)

Are the chairs,

Vinyl chairs,

Who cast limited shadows,

Over a limited surface.

And tell no stories of their own.

Provocative weeds will occasionally rise,

Snaking up and through  what little daylight lies

Between the cracks of the

  Leftover stones,

And bloom.

And bloom.

The curious weeds

Use the  same holes forged by earthworms

As passages,

As tributaries,

As maps.

To circumvent the chaos existing on the ground floor.

Accompanied by a faint  chorus barely heard form

Way down in  the basement.

Amidst the smoking barbecues,

And beneath the dripping  honeycombs,

That hang from clogged gutters,

Like shining gold ornaments.

Protected by stinging wasps,


Spinning spiders,

That come hand in hand with the airless Summer.

The smiling stones,

Vapid and docile when presented in the moonlight ,

Offer up little more than

An exemplary example of a right angle,

And the early stages of erosion

(A learning experience, if nothing else.)

 Their spectral complexion,

(A characteristic usually reserved for the clouds)


It is a  frequent topic of speculation.

Perhaps they were

Derived from  porous beginnings


Eons-old mountain tops.


Wearing white hats,

Made of

Snow or ash.

 Looking over infinite forests,

(At the time from infinite heights)

And casting even the bravest climbers down,

 To tumble like wayward boulders.

Ejecting the civilians from it’s isolated cliffs

To the streets of future cities.

That will eventually  crumble like Pangaea.

The mystery of this stone sheet,

Fitted over this particular grassy bed,

Is now reduced to exist at  eye level with

 Finite accumulations of fools-gold


Empty bottles of acid-reflux medication.

Still holding onto the thought of what it felt like to look down,

When  it was once a mountain.

When it was once  a canyon.

When it was once  a statue.


The view it still possesses,

The view of alabaster skies,

Is still quite staggering.


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