Tucked among the palmettos and the tombstones,
Gathered in an incomplete circle,
A group of incumbent bricks,
Provide a moment of clarity for some of the more boisterous neighbors.
Probably laid as a road or a foundation for some species or some structure at sometime.
The grooves on which the needle will drag to produce sound.
Or a crisp border to frame the sloppy palmettos in front this house,
(An ugly painting presented in a gilded frame)
Presented to so many kings,
But this feat,
Was interrupted by
Other more important tasks,
Or more beautiful paintings, as it were.
Portraits of mundane tasks
Such as tending to the delicate house plants that are prone to wilting,
On some particularly hot afternoons,
Encouraging grass to actually grow over sand, while watching the paint dry on the canvas.
The bricks rearranged themselves during this renaissance , aided of course by
Neglect and time,
But really set into motion by
Tectonic plates being cleaned and put away next to the
By platonic hands that handle the finest silverware
Some other factors that are not quite of this world.
(But are of the clouds, and the monarchy, respectively)
Slowly, and finally the bricks formed a circle.
(Or at least their idea of one)
And it was good.
Surely this attempt at architecture would inspire falling meteorites to be more than displaced space junk!
Surely this was an event sure to usurp “Casablanca” in terms of intrinsic value!
Certainly this would rewrite textbooks and inspire generations!
And yet this tiny monument,
A lesser Stonehenge;
An homage to all things trivial;
Partially hidden here under a shady grove of palmettos,
On a seldom used street,
In a sparsely populated community,
Noticed by nightingales and not-much-more,
Initially proved to be nothing more than
A false arena,
In some eyes.
(But not in the eyes of the nightingales)
In some eyes,
They were not capable of hosting any event,
Big or small, formal or casual.
No place for folded linens or laminated menus,
(Or even laminated steaks)
It’s vacancy attributed mostly to it’s un-impressive construction
But also due to the fact that
There would be virtually no seating, or anything to watch even.
No place to even pitch a tent.
Or plug in a generator.
It was a few bricks under some bushes,
In some eyes,
Still somehow similar to Circus-Maximus though,
Minus the gladiators,
& the noise,
Far, far away from Rome…
Maybe it was the way the bricks looked after a thunderstorm,
Barely wet but still so comfortable,
Slightly covered in a thin layer of moss,
Slightly covered by a thin green blanket,
Sleeping now in such soft soil.
It might appear to be quicksand, according to critics.
There might be monsters under the bed, according to critics.
But still the bricks
Hoist themselves up onto pedestals and raise their arms in the air;
Exuding triumph and backed by the sounds of blaring trumpets.
Because these bricks were not always, only here, tucked under those palmettos.
(These may not have even been the original bricks)
They have occurred in ancient dreams alongside the occult, forever ago.
They will continue to appear in future dreams, disguised in chrome.
These are bricks of perspective.
Sometimes they will be just bricks,
And sometimes they will be just roads,
The dreams were not of bricks but of chariots instead…