A monument, depending on who you ask

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,

This painting,

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

Tectonic bowls,


Tectonic cups

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 hyperbole,

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,


The lions.

& being

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,

& sometimes

The dreams were not of bricks but  of chariots instead…


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