At one point,
A formidable patio.
Laid out like a chess board,
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,
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,
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
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.
(Among the swarms)
Are the 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
And bloom. And bloom.
The curious weeds
Use the same holes forged by earthworms
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,
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,
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.