These are days without mechanical thought.

These are roads that are dusty

With or without wind.

Or footsteps.

A temporary reprieve from the exhausting thoughts of

Expensive paint-cans,

&

Their infinite shades.

Or pondering where the stray  hubcaps from  speeding cars

End up once they roll away on their own.

During an afternoon excursion.

(Quite possibly having founded   a world of chrome  and broken spokes, either above or below the current macrocosm, complete with a Parliament  and overdue library books. )

Tangled vines and aggressive palmettos

Choke out growing trees that have miraculously  grown up through discarded tires,

&

The  waxy bays that smell of vanilla,

Out of place among

So many living oaks.

That will eventually smell of sawdust.

Floating soda cans are not litter,

But  ships at sea,

Setting sight  on the fountain in the middle.

The pinnacle of this reservoir.

Accompanied by a lone gourd,

That has been carelessly thrown overboard.

All these vessels,

&

Others

Attempting to

Dodge the treacherous turtle shells that

Have laid so many other metaphors to rest.

Off beyond some of the other brush,

Is a strategically placed rope swing.

Held by a knot that is

Tighter than any knot before or after it,

Tighter than anything that will ever be.

Capable of carrying

Calvary and

Carpenter ants alike,

Over a dried up canal,

Past the tops of trees,

To splash into the  milky stars.

It would pay dividends  to acknowledge

Two people.

One sitting on one side of the lake,

On a bench with plenty of gum underneath,

Whose line of sight is obscured by the roaring fountain,

&

Soda cans that have now started to sink.

And on the other side ,

(Separated by equal parts water and space and exasperation)

The other sits,

On a picnic bench,

Eating nothing,

But

Reading something.

Neither of them move,

&

It is better that way.

Because

This story within a story  could only be told better,

By an artists rendering.

Pounding and scraping can be heard off in the distance,

&

Excavation is underway nearby,

Machines that look

&

Sound like dinosaurs

Dig through the bedrock and

The

Bottle-caps

To unearth  ancient pipelines,

Dilapidated conduits that took eons to crystallize.

&

Replace them with more modern couplings in mere seconds,

Resistant to  both rust and to fairy-tales.

To better provide fuel at the expense of fossils that

Continue to mount,

In record numbers.

All this noise

Off so far in the distance,

Still

Reverberates at the park,

All this noise,

Off so far in the distance,

Still relevant at the park.

Compelling bread crumbs originally left for the

Ducks,

Remain still,

Left to tremble  on top  of the soft grass where it was forgotten in the first place ,

Like hesitant popcorn.

The opportunistic cranes,

See this and consider this as a meal.

  To have

Din

&

Dinner in the same day,

(Especially if it is  just stale bread)

Would be  an outrageous bargain,

&

That is to say nothing of  an open box of donuts,

Left to be further baked by this days sun

&

Many others after it.

Left momentarily as a decoration in a park,

That is severely lacking in anything besides recreation,

&

Bathrooms.

There are an adequate number of bathrooms in paradise.

When the body and the blood have graduated;

Beyond the bones and

Blinking eyes.

& Whistling lips.

&

When spirits dance off this planet,

Onto the next;

Forks and knives,

and spatulas

&

Dracula reserve the right to take part.

Taking part in this flight of the condor.

If they do,

They do so in the sanctity of meticulously  labeled  drawers,

Touched by many hands,

(A carpenters to start)

Both

By quick hands,

&

 By the graceful caress of hands fallen limp.

These utensils brought together from so many  different places,

And then assembled in this parsonage;

Attended with an unbridled patronage;

 Occasional knives of sterling  silver used to carve meat from bone

See no qualm rubbing elbows with stainless steel spoons,

Whose primary use is scooping up what’s left of the   chocolate pudding.

Decorated punch bowls born into  worlds of glass,

&

Clouds,

&

Coffins

 Will fit snugly inside the warm embrace of

The whimsical plastic bowls that house

The fruit salad.

The same way the moon fits into a cold sky.

Scores of assorted mugs line the cabinets,

Some chipped ones, moved towards the back after repeated use.

Some are painted with portraits of fish.

Then there are others,

Coffee mugs with  such eccentric  prints that both the wallpaper that peels

On the wall behind

 The stove,

&

Wild chameleons,

Will both  seek

To strike like lightning…

  In order  to change their syntax

&

Their environment entirely.

Skillets and cauldrons take many posts around the busy kitchen.

Bubbling with fat

&

Grease,

&

Spells.

Left to simmer on stove tops.

Left to conjure up conjectures.

Some rest like tired grey elephants, backs and bottoms tired from lifting,

…And remembering.

…And remembering.

And some have made their way to the churches nursery, in a cursory fashion.

&

Now are played like steel drums on the banks of faraway  islands,

Welcoming incoming rowboats.

Welcoming  the waning tides.

All the  different metals resonate with hymns and gravity.

Cast and galvanized  alike, hypnotized

By ticking clocks.

Stainless and fine China,

Punctuated by those same clocks,

Whose alarms have now sounded.

A few of these good dishes,

Wrapped more tightly than most pharaohs

In order to provide for  the next millennia.

…For  at least the next luncheon.

These dishes,

(Even some desserts)

(That one’s that can see their  own breaths)

Are tucked away in the cold,

Where there is light, only when the door opens.

And darkness when it is not.

They were chosen to preserve the myth of leftovers,

By a committee wearing yellow gloves

&

Decorated  aprons;

Filled with crumbs and dystrophy.

Who will utter mostly  kind words, and

Smell of  talcum powder and gameshows.

These reverent  dishes know that they

Can safely rest behind the doors of the refrigerator.

Behind the walls of Jericho.

It’s facade,

Disguised with many magnets,

Introducing the  colorful alphabet to such  unlikely allies,

As take-out menus

&

Handwritten directions to a nearby shopping mall.

Drawing up contingency plans, for the fragile eggs,

&

Formulating an exit strategy,

To protect the  ambivalent potato salad.

The  yellow margarine is left uncovered…

On a white plate.

On a counter top.

Steadily melting…

Steadily aspiring…

For just a little  bit more.

The loaf of bread has fallen asleep.

Stale now.

Separate bottles of oil and vinegar remain upright.

The  thermostat  setting, turned only half way,

If, for nothing else,

To keep the deviled eggs, from freezing over,

In this time of revelation.

Sewn together, by working hands

And offered up to the  afternoon sun,

On the tops of  working heads,

Not as an offering, but as an affirmation.

Hung up by night,

Hung up by the night.

Above the tool box.

Above the treasure chest.

Screwdrivers  with handles resembling rubies and emeralds shine under flickering incandescent lights,

Miming the movements of candles;

& the pirates can only wonder…

This dimly lit garage,

Lined with oil spills and the dust from the wings of moths,

A few instruction manuals short of a library.

Weary levels lay next to yardsticks,

Forming parallel relationships.

Barely missing right angles…

Barely missing right angels…

Long after the  spades have been sheathed

And the shade of the day has receded into actual darkness,

The straw hat will continue its streak of pride.

On  hat-racks,

Or otherwise.

If a stiff breeze blows,

The hat may find itself dancing like

Plastic bags that often find themselves in similar situations.

Racing through the tall grass,

 Picking up speed with each gust

Like a preying lioness,

Kicking up swathes of dandelions and bramble,

Until it is snared by a waiting chain link fence,

( The cactus of the fence world)

And held until it can be recovered.

The hat can be mistaken for an inverted birds nest,

( Minus the eggs)

And not feel any contempt.

The hat feels nothing,

Except the warmth of dignity and sunlight.

A temporary reprieve when the hand is far too tired to shield the eyes,

A staple of credibility when fences have fallen, and shovels must dig deep.

At the end of the day,

Watching the  idle  dogs with idle spots lifting  only their noses at

Each

Passing

Smell.

&

Understanding this very sentiment,

Is the very foundation of  season.

Like most other distinguished articles of clothing,

The straw hat,

When worn properly,

Can hold their heads  up high, knowing that through all of  the

Droughts

&

Cool autumns yet to come,

Their place is always closer to the top than most.

(Save for the halos)

Worn above the broad  shoulders,

But below the beating sun.

And aligned almost perfectly

To catch

&

To cradle

Wayward tunes that were once  whistled

Out loud.

Out loud.

Like a  jeweled crown,

An apex unplugged,

It sits atop the cedar post,

Brighter than any birds nest.

(Minus the eggs,too.)

This brass arachnid

Feeding on the aluminum coffin,

Or incubating it’s contents.

…Keeping correspondence warm.

It’s forked tongue long ago pried away from the waning electrical sockets of

A now far away house.

And left to hang,

Left to blow in the breeze,

And to knock on wood when a hurricane blows,

& wonder about past energies.

Past loves.

Instead, left to power nothing.

Where the mail is received,

And the red flag waves, celebrating both victory and outgoing mail.

This chandelier takes it’s place,

Changes it’s course.

Majesty replacing monotony,

If only to accept letters and various other visas.

Which will provide neither

Nutrition or attrition for the mailbox.

Although currently in control,

The chandelier wilts like a flower at noon.

When the moon takes it place in the sky.

Melting into a beautiful puddle,

A indomitable mixture of alloys and pylons,

Forcing nearby  pythons to flee to the Pantheon.

Wishing   now more than ever it could attract fireflies,

To fight back against the

Moon & stars.

To  somehow regain it’s fervor and blast off into space,

With the strength of comets,

On the wings of condors.

To force the universe to cover its collective mouth,

But

Instead, in recession

Tiny bands of tungsten barely visible to any eye,

(Naked or otherwise)

Playing tunes not yet meant to be heard.

Igniting fires not yet meant to be seen.

Like an old action movie,

It could be speculated the chandelier was shot from it’s roost,

That  hung opulently above a spiral staircase

By  some debonair hero,

During  some chaotic hour,

While clocks chimed and swing music blared in the background.

Only to be perfectly timed,

To ultimately  crash on top of the head of some belligerent intruder.

&

 Spare some unfortunate maiden

A trip to the train-tracks.

Or dropped from a massive  tree that sprouted chandeliers ,

This

Fantastic

Mutation

The  product of a bean planted within the confines of a power-plant.

Only to have them collected by some giant with penchant for trinkets,

…And golden geese.

And hung, by that same giant

 So the stars would come to be.

All this,

All these movie script manifestations,

Plot

h                                            oles

And

 Apparent charisma.

Are the equivalent to  love-seats, in well lit offices.

 They are  just silver diversions,

Aquariums next to sign-in sheets.

Silver stories about a brass light fixture, affixed to the top of a mail-box.

Mixed up on the tables with so many other magazines.

But cast to a bigger screen,

Like that first stone is,

Once in awhile.

&

Watched by so many  roaring crowds

Who possess great hearts,

But still struggle to find their footing in the dark,

As well

As the cup holders on their armrests.

As well

As the swords at their sides.

Eventually the

 The chandelier will find its way

Down.

Gently, of course.

Placing it’s brass arms

Behind it’s brass head,

And stretching it’s brass legs.

Towards the brass horizon.

Now sitting atop the  quiet earth,

By a quiet body of water,

Under a quiet sky.

Blowing quiet smoke rings.

No longer collecting mail.

No longer considered art.

But still a topic of conversation, on a much lighter scale.

At one point,

A formidable patio.

Laid out like a chess board,

Minus the

Horses

& 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

Hungry

Geckos.

(Whose eyes are like lenses)

(Whose spines resemble xylophones)

This substantial stage

Suited for

A

Funeral

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)

However,

It is a  frequent topic of speculation.

Perhaps they were

Derived from  porous beginnings

As

Eons-old mountain tops.

Once

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.

Although,

The view it still possesses,

The view of alabaster skies,

Is still quite staggering.

 

Set to a panoramic setting of

Galactic horizons,

Accompanied by an soundtrack of

 Galactic proportions

Consisting  mostly of synthesizers and thesis statements,

Black water batters colorful rocks,

Eluding the careful eyesight of the  periphery sentinels,

That

Stand guard on either side of

Sinuses.

Passing secretly and 

Silently,

By way of blind-spots,

Illuminated by sunspots.

Crumbling rocks and  vacant thoughts

Fall from Olympus,

Far from Everest.

&

Pass at

Enormous intervals of speed,

Down the  river Styx,

Through the pockets of Charon.

But ultimately

 Dissipating before they reach they’re desired destination.

Resulting in a  fallout of memory,

&

A shower of repetition

A shower of repetition.

A show, reptilian.

Overflowing from the faucet of a 

Priceless,

Flawless,

Claw foot bathtub.

That was left to

Drip

Drip

Drip

In a bathroom far

Far away.

Abandoned

By long ago hands,

That are also

Far

Far away,

…That in the present time are to busy turning crescent wrenches,

Tightening crescent moons

&

After a while,

Memories and

Timber alike begin to pile

Up,

Rising from the porcelain basin,

(Like a                   phoenix)

(Like a                    volcano)

  While also

Temporarily damming the

Rescinded floodgates.

Forcing fluorescent water to rise,

&

Weaken the ankles of

 Counterfeit Skyscrapers

(That resemble legs of very real chairs)

That are responsible for

Printing thousands of blank sheets of paper,

Every hour.

& then

Imaginary secretaries

Employed at those same imaginary skyscrapers,

 Toss them out the thousands of imaginary [windows],

To show the authentic snow

It is not alone.

To show the  proven  rain

That it

Can

Also

Pour.

To demonstrate to demons,

Windfall can occur

Without warning.

Neon vines, crawl from rooftops

Up the railings of

Stairways

To various

Heavens,

And then down through yards,

Spliced to an array of ecstatic extension cords,

Like

Silent patchwork snakes,

Constricting otherwise healthy trunks of adolescent trees.

The effervescent scent of florescence shines brighter than any

Desert metropolis

Populated primarily by palm trees.

And disillusioned spotlights.

Carpenter ants crawl round’ the wires,

Easily walking these electric tightropes,

Traversing these eventual nooses.

Avoiding the  infinite depths of the canopy though ,

And all its transcendent residents.

Other indications of inaccessibility,

Are present, too.

Neon signs tacked to adjacent trees,

Burned out long ago,

(To the chagrin of no one but the sun)

Provide a  steady transition from the remnants of holiday cheer,

Into a confusing portrait of antiquity.

Best viewed through cracked lenses.

Dilapidated lawn gnomes,

Whose ceramic faces

And faded red hats,

Now glow a pale green with an eager fungus.

Stand guard at the base of

The nervous trees now consumed with both  bark-beetles and Ohms.

These shaking saplings,

These  uncharacteristic Christmas trees,

Wrapped in color and buzzing with hornets,

Year round,

Bent, by nature,

Year round.

But shackled by skeletons.

These tangled giants

Will begin to   burn silently,

To burn sweetly.

And the neighbors who watch from bedroom windows,

These neighbors  who watch from across the street,

Who own boats but never sail them,

Wait for an opportunity,

A chance  to catch the trees

In a state of incapacitation & leisure

 & possibly to find

Pastel easter eggs that were hidden in the morning,

(Before pancakes and church)

With ambitions  that they would never be found later in the  evening.

(Even after a hot shower and headache)

 

With a long history of short circuits,

Delivered and then consigned  to blend in with the bushes,

Having been involved in dispensing

Snacks and books alike,

That both would

Sometimes get stuck for a moment,

And then be shaken free.

Change taken and change given,

Rejecting currency too rusty to be sunken treasure,

Rejecting currency folded one times to many.

…Essentially rejecting the cornerstone on which laundry was founded.

This distant relative of the

Archaic arcade machine,

(Albeit, adhering to similar lifestyles)

With its bingo numbers,

And glass chassis,

And three slots at the bottom,

(Where the food drops like fruit from a tree)

Three galvanized caves,

(Where the food hides like a caveman from an angry mastodon)

Three vacant bowling alleys.

(Where the pins go to sleep)

This  mechanical gargoyle labors on.

Ignoring  both eclipses and ellipses…

Dreaming of that angelic view from the roof,

But still,

Casting quite the shadow at noon.

This guardian of surplus,

This beggar,

&

This chooser.

This merchant, with a penchant for pennies,

Solicits  snacks

In front of a library,

Ignoring solstices of any variety,

& the children carrying snow-cones.

Carefully watching carefree fountains

Across the steamy parking lot,

Distribute thin geysers,

Into

thin

air.

Similar to snarky card players, gnashing their teeth across a smoky table.

There will be no midnight customers.

(No last second kings or queens)

There will be only midnight cats,

&

Midnight noise,

Both of which are

Feral by nature,

But

Domestic in spirit.

 Despite the

Requisite moths,

&

The exquisite rain,

The  checkerboard pin-pad,

(Some numbers worn off, almost completely)

Still glows a radiant blue,

Flickering like a forgotten motel sign,

Advertising the most comfortable beds in the area! 

Instead speaking to the stars,

Conversing  with it’s creator,

(While holding an out-of-order sign)

The hungry transmissions  bounce from planet to planet,

Digesting the ingredients of each finished chapter,

& then

Regurgitating  the contents,

The finished product is a marvelous spell,

Sticky with glaze and magic,

Presented to some distant green eggs,

That exist well beyond lights,

&

Years

Well past the barbed wire fences,

Well past the rivers of flowing milk…

Well past where the home-runs usually land.

White walls,

White like the wings of angels,

White like the unhatched egg.

Covered in craters.

Like the white moon,

Covered in craters.

Created by so many former nails.

&

Cracks created by driving hammers,

Like driven railroad spikes,

They run top to bottom….down the line.

Silver

& exciting

At first,

But eventually blackened by coal and friction.

Still not yet authentic enough to be called

Canyons, though.

Small lengths of cord protrude from

The ceiling,

Extending everywhere,

Feigning intact connections,

Imitating inanimate tentacles.

These loose ends,

Once prominent sources for

Symphonies of light

&

Sound.

Now

Only connected to recycled air.

And remnants of cobwebs.

That  gently blow like

Clean linen hung out on the line.

This is an empty room,

An entire empty space,

Still somehow so full of energy.

&

Breadcrumbs.

Vast deserts of course  carpet,

That run the length of the entire suite,

(Sentient ceiling fans  only orbiting interpretations of ineptitude, at this junction)

 Have been,

Vacuumed so thoroughly,

Vacuumed so vividly,

That the concealed concrete,

(On  the other side)

Shines through like polished alternative ,

Ready for excavation.

Not even some of the most vapid of vapors

Can hide the smells of spilled meals

&

Ceremonies involving tennis shoes,

&

Alchemy.

(The torches long ago burned out)

(The potions long ago diluted)

And the occasional misplaced staple,

Poking straight up from the  dusty dunes of Berber

Reaching for a taste of that buttery popcorn ceiling.

Instead taking on the role of the lazy cacti,

(& even lazier movie goer)

Minus the water,

Minus the oxygen.

Only acoustics,

And ghosts thereof,

Remain within the confines of the  once

Adequate square footage.

Outlines of furniture,

Are now nothing more than spotty patterns.

Even the linoleum leading into the bare kitchen,

Resembles  a empty mausoleum.

 The foyer door swings open,

(mini-blinds still somehow intact)

Revealing the naked balcony.

Allowing one-of-a-kind scents to escape out into the wind,

From within,

& settle in the nests of neighboring birds.

Blessing the eggs and the

Eventual feathers.

But upon this vacant doors closure,

&

Subsequent sale of the entire empty space,

To some new tentative tenant.

The rejuvenated songs of those same blessed  birds,

(Who sing loudest on Sundays, when the windows are open)

Yet again,

Canonize those vulnerable white  walls,

…With familiar sounds

Sounds that smell and taste better now.

Providing a gentle jingle for the new painters.

Providing a minuscule meal for the new lessee.

Finding their way into the depths of the  airtight freezer,

Around the bag of expired frozen vegetables,

To settle into ten congruent glacial pools.

&

To once and for all,

(Setting ethos aside)

Find the  differences,

(However microscopic)

Between the  transparent composition of crushed and cubed ice.

 

As  the outlines of the outdoors roar like proud lions,

And cars turn their tired tires,

The gloomy clouds

Accompanied by calamitous thunder,

Rattle the fragmented windows,

Those same shaken windows that

Dream of fault lines

 But

Never actually  bear them .

&

A television blinks,

From channel,

To

Channel.

Permitting shadows, for mere seconds.

 Simultaneously releasing elegant arrays of decorated charges,

That march single file,

Dressed in colorful capes,

And ballroom masks.

&

Attend suspended soirees,

With empty glasses in hand.

Running from commercial breaks

&

Fleeing from the  flashes of cameras,

&

..Stepping over the slowly rising tombstones.

These real replicas,

Held closely  to the flame,

Will slowly melt away  the fragile  layers of

High definition.

Into  blurry  puddles of  incandescent static.

(That blends right in with the collect calls and infomercials, once it settles.)

&

Although these electric guests

Trapped just inside,

Like suspended fruit,

Floating in   glowing jars of  gelatinous syrup.

That  house near the road,

Where the silent television

Is perilously visible, through passing windows.

Is provocatively audible, from the nearby nests of songbirds,

At different times of the day,

Various characters

From screens larger than most  microscopes slides

Look, briefly

Like sandwiched bacteria.

Frozen in  momentary perpetuation,

While  still being studied extensively,

By delirious focus groups.

These perilous programmes,

Drenched in invisibility,

But still continue to

Impress with  steady arsenals of eccentric charges,

Becoming an apparent component.

In an otherwise  exclusive stew of extensive compounds.

(Brought to you by any number of articulate games how hosts)

The crystallized cast,

(Who will  clap for everyone but themselves)

Casually pace back and fourth,

Like confused specters,

Like calculated insects,

Working to sustain an ant-farm amidst abeyance,

For all the outside world to see.

But as the rest of the trivial world watches,

From the outside,

From the otherside,

The walking dogs from the edges of traveled  sidewalks,

&

The buzzing zeppelin from the undiscovered skies,

They too,

Become televisions.

Become immortal,

(In their own way)

They become a channel,

For a  hungry man in a hard hat.

For a grounded astronaut.

These expendable  entities will  inevitably misplace the remote control,

And make

Insurmountable  messes with a   variety of   simple snacks,

Consisting mostly of  mostly optimistic sunflower seeds,

(Chewed into oblivion)

Sandwiches minus their cumbersome crusts,

And stale popcorn harder than most

 Passing meteorites.