Unlike wind-chimes

Unlike wind-chimes,

Banging together,

                                A calamitous decoration,

Hoping to be everything the xylophone never has been,

In a still wind,

The mythology is entrenched, and over saturated, now more than ever.

Written on the walls of caves, and embossed on the front of business cards,

A phone rings in a quiet house,

Sounding like apples falling to the earth,

In a faraway orchard,

Each fruit more sweet than the last,

Each crater deeper than the last,

                          Each fruit, moving faster then the next.

                                                                     Pulling gravity down,

& waving a blanket in front of it’s face,

Waiting for the snarling bull to charge,

Waiting for the horns to tear into reality,

Silent  silverware, and steaming platters, laid out for a feast;



Reluctant to try something new.

Unable to keep the silence,

Unable to keep the peace,

A din that drowns out dinner follows suit,

Dressed to the nines of course,

Skipping  both the eighth and seventh cloud on it’s way down;

The sound of a thousand crowds, cheering for the lion instead of the gladiator,

& the squawking

A murder of crows sit atop the Colosseum, mocking the mockingbirds,

and admiring all the bricks it took to make this roost.

Waiting to pounce on the empty bags of chips left behind,

 A sober reminder of what was.

This cyclone moves through the city,

Breaches the plains, flattening cornfields, and farmhouses,

Taking up all the water from babbling brooks along the way,

                              and casting  it towards  oceans that are

Themselves, immune to suction of  any kind.

Only detracting from the salinity, slightly.

While the scarecrows wait with open arms, for birds that are

Already busy enough, with chores and other demonstrations.

With other demons;

With other demons;

The sound of a tornado,

The sight of a chimera on the horizon,

                    (if you squint)

Sounding more like wind-chimes then the wind-chimes themselves  ever do,

Glowing more lucid than any candle

                      or  brighter than any dream could ever be,

More black and white than any movie, or instruction manual,

More partial than any spatial arrangements,

Lining the tables at  a wedding,

Winding down, with mostly wineglasses stained with lipstick left behind,

As well as a few place settings that were never unfurled,

The vows said, still basking in the evening air,

More charisma than those  words could ever describe,

On a collision course with italics, 

Begotten by letters than are themselves, bold in nature,

Semantics, and rhetoric, scrawled on a note-card, that has been folded into

A swan,

                                        and left to admire;

Left to float.

Left to float.










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