Sandwiched between

Two trees,

Above fertile soil, and

Below a crescent moon.

Temporarily catching leaves

&

Other debris that falls with  the

Changing

Autumn winds.

Illuminated by a variety of lights,

Some occurring naturally and some

Enduring artificially.

(Depending on the time of year)

It has the potential

&

Kinetic energy to match the hanging laundry,

Some socks,

Some shirts and

Some white sheets that can flutter so violently,

They will emerge as flame;

Bearing a titular resemblance to the smoldering phoenix.

And may be mistaken for suburban forest fires

Or

Sun-spots among the vast cul-de-sacs,

That are communities

Among already communities.

While the laundry in question is

Left to dry on the line,

Left to try for a time. 

Dancing erratically in between gusts,

They can appear as one other if only a glance was to be spared.

And it  is a wonder why there are  not more mirrors outdoors

                                                                                                                                       mirrors outdoors

 Both  live in constant suspension,

Like swinging bridges,

With the constant fear they may one day take

Flight unexpectedly,

Or plunge unexpectedly

As some birds in infancy, surely have thought.

Coming unhinged,

Feathers and all,

And

Soaring up into the stratosphere.

Breaking through  tangled canopies of

Violins & vines;

Looking down,

And initially

Knowing only

Nausea and

Anxiety

But soon

Discovering sportsmanship and ferocity ,

-As if they were neighbors

Chaperoned by symphonies that pilot chariots,

That descend unto

The cities below.

Snaking through alleyways and steamy grates,

Watching people participate as ants

&

Ants

Incapacitate the people.

Sometimes the hammock will endure wind gusts like

Intermittent tornadoes,

And is twisted in on itself,

Its ropes on both sides twisting with so much friction…

So much fiction…

And when those same savage winds move on,

&

Dissipate like melting ice cream,

(Ice cream cones that look like tornadoes, at least in form, minus the color and taste of strawberries.)

The hammock will unwind  in a fashion similar to  its usual occupants,

But at speeds that create gusts and

Craters of their own,

Forming moons and

Plots of land that

Will never have a mayor

Or a pristine golf course,

Or a gold mine.

All of which would require a sprinkle of humanity,

On top of something that already looks like a croissant,

A condition that the shady spot under the hammock can not sustain

(Because there is no bakery)

Because this  would also require

 Some excessively large scissors

In order to cut the  ribbon

Which would be either

Yellow or red

In color.

&

Immeasurable in length.

Buried beneath

Furrows of insulation,

&

Heaps of disintegrated photographs,

Are

Cards for many occasions.

Snakes resembling many moccasins. 

Cards  decorated with colorful balloons

&

Cakes

Even playing cards,

Faded  by time,

Not by the sand in the hourglass.

These cards,

Originally intended to be remembered, having escaped their boxed fate,

&

Landed face down.

Cards  depicting empty forests and singing swallows,

Lending their ears

&

Eyes

To to a simpler time.

The faint  smell of tree sap

&

The stickiness of maple syrup, flowing like landslides over pancake islands,

Never enough napkins to contain the motivated molasses.

Only the forks can save them now.

All of these  individual premonitions,

Of  the few cards that landed face down,

Admonished all at once

When they were covered with a storage bin full to bursting.

A bin filled with even more things,

Even some other  cards,

Honoring other occasions

But mostly

Crafts

&

Bills,

Mostly.

The  essential summation of this and so many other attics.

Which is in its base form is flat, mostly unexplored land

Consisting mostly of termites

&

Crashed spaceships,

& pictures of windmills.

& pictures of windmills.

Little plots of land above the rigid cinder-blocks

&

Visceral,

Vertical beams that breathe inside the  sanctity of the walls.

Ribs encasing the beating heart of the standing house.

 Colonies of silverfish

&

Ghosts

Both

Survive and maintain

This  bustling canopy.

These empty farms.

 Scarcely lit terra firma rich with textiles and

Rare smiles,

Bursting at the seams

With stuff that might be from inside a couch cushion

Or

Cotton candy.

Cornucopias of wrapping paper and

Phone-books.

Wade like schools of feeding fish,

Just below the surface,

Bouncing like ping-pong balls between ceiling joints,

Out of reach until at least next season.

 Time practically stands still up in the attic,

Until

 A certain stairway is unveiled,

Flooding the ample crevice with  more

Creaking footsteps

&

The ringing of doorbells,

An uproar from the legions of fans below,

Men and women,

Lifeboats and hard candy,

Waving handkerchiefs and breaking bottles in adoration,

 At this time,

Only this time,

Celebrating civility and stability in  unison.

And weeping when the door closes,

And weeping when the pictures stop.

Matted stuffed animals posturing to become relevant again,

Toys with missing pieces exists only as foliage at this juncture,

The silverfish,

&

A  select few other species,

(Ghosts included)

Find themselves

With nothing left to do but

Read  many ancient  brochures;

With glasses  slid down to the tips of their noses,

Like inquiring grandparents, struggling to see in the dark.

While wondering what the  unopened harmonicas that are curiously  buried

Deeper than any of these other treasures,

In cardboard boxes that suspiciously  resemble coffins

Could possibly sound like.

This  precarious collective consists of neither

Flora nor fauna,

(With the exception of the silverfish)

They only chew up what is left,

Of what is left.

Obliterating all traces of sugar

&

Starch.

Recessing confessions and an incalculable number of invitations,

Filing them into oblivion .

All the contents of the attic,

All the love letters,

&

Fireworks packed away for nights teeming with expectation;

Those

Nights never saw those lights,

Those

Nights never read those words,

But still they relished in the explosive manner of how  the people celebrated.

While

Dreaming of dancing weather-vanes,

&

Falling leaves

That pirouette   just out of  arms reach,

Spiraling just beyond  hindsight,

In plain sight.

Slot machines

&

Game  cartridges slated for personal use,

Once bright with

Color and sound,

Are chipped and covered with a thick coat of dust,

As opposed as to a

Coat of arms.

The machines fighting battles they never imagined,

[Saloons doors all closed now, as the town looks on with squinted eyes]

Staring at  a card from the

“Thinking of you” section of the grocery store;

Equipped with faded roses on the front

Equipped with faded eyes, ready to bury so many opponents after this one.

Even from a distance.

[Pistols still holstered]

Thorns readily exposed.

And now a whistling can be heard…

A motionless colony.

Without ants.

Without ants.

Growing with gnomes.

And not with crops

And not with crops.

Of stalwart collectibles,

Extravagant castaways.

An old engine block,

A disconnected exit sign,

And counterfeit Easter island heads.

&

So many

Moth

Golf-balls,

Among  so many other intricacies.

Rescued from other piles of refuse,

Or  from faraway islands, in march.

Or from fairways,

Blown away by trade-winds…

&

Brought here to carry on their tradition.

Any tradition, for that matter.

But instead,

Bleached by the sun,

(A tradition of radiation)

Chipped by falling acorns.

Chipped by falling stars.

The noble gnomes,

Pushing ceramic wheelbarrows,

To ceramic marketplaces

Where insect  vendors sell dust by the dozen

…By the pound

Other artifacts,

Mobile or otherwise

Moving almost nowhere,

Collect more fallen acorns.

Collect more fallen stars.

And storing them right next to nowhere.

That sits directly  next to the old shed.

Where cats and rust are one in the same.

Where  firewood is stacked.

Where the coral snakes sleep.

Other gnomes, who have taken to the tops of stumps,

Some holding marbles,

While others beckon with pitchforks,

Attempting to cut down the butterflies as they swarm nearby flowers,

Thinking of building bridges,

&

Raising flags

&

Other autocratic possibilities.

Will, at the very least end up fractured, like the

Old, washed up dishes, that closely  resembles a graveyard

In appearance,

But not in standard.

These offerings,

Purchased by some old aristocrat,

(Who had  a penchant for practicality as well as glass)

From a store whose neon signs long ago flickered out,

Just to match the rest of the dusky plaza,

Which once smelled of pizza.

To match the supermarket whose shelves look now more like monuments then they ever did,

Even in   their heyday, when the air  still smelled of wax

&

Museums

But all the people still  moved,

The people even danced.

In busy parking lots,

Around unlocked cars.

 Where a pet store once stood,

From where the beasts sprang fourth! 

These dishes, who

Originally  were more clear then swimming pools

Originally more clear then surrounding clairvoyants.

 Who have quietly grown organically right along side the green moss,

(Even though it is much colder on that north side)

This population rings bells so faint,

Vexed by sounds they don’t yet understand.

A careful listener may mistake them for tiny wind-chimes,

(If there were any careful listeners left)

They have all gone to brunch.

They have all fallen below sea-level.

As night falls the gnomes do not close their eyes,

The dishes

& Easter island heads

&

Engine-blocks,

&

The amino acids

&

Dominoes as well as

Exit signs,

Remain quiet.

Not because they are aware that Rome has fallen,

Not because some volcanoes remain dormant.

But because stationary eyes do not close.

They do not want to impress any emperors.

That task is for the bird- baths.

Where blue-birds;

Where geisha’s;

Splash in slow motion.

Washing away vinegar

As well as cold-medicine,

From their perplexed feathers.

Turning then into doves,

&

Then

Burning like the phoenix.

 

They spin their heads along with the noble owls, and

Watch passing tires spin faster.

Disregarding the diamonds

&

Other loose change they so easily pulverize.

While

Hoping that  the resident  jack in the box,

Stays broken

&

Silent

Like the garden itself.

(The only difference being a tinge of fertility.)

This is land that is not only filled,

With rubbish

&

With relics

This is land that is  full.

Full with fresh water

Full with light that moves between branches and

Full with gregarious air that breaths

On

It’s

Own.

&

Cacti who don’t need deserts to grow.

Guests who don’t need dessert to know when dinner is over.

This is a garden of gnomes,

&

Other things

Peaceful things,

Caught in stasis,

Instead of  spiderwebs.

 

 

 

The origins of the aforementioned roof

Told in a single story

From a single story.

This roof, whose once tired and weary shingles are now being peeled away  like

Blood

Red

Oranges,

During

Blood

Red

Afternoons

By

Blood

Red

Roofers

And then tossed down to the grass below,

Missing the open dumpster that exists  only for the purpose of refuse,

By miles and miles…

To mingle with nails and other debris that have also  fallen,

Like foreign entities onto native lands,

Puncturing

&

Then posturing as some sort of important landmark.

Embellishing a sort of summer salad  in this scenario,

Made up of ants that look like raisins,

And earthworms that look like onions,

&

Onions that look like onions.

Some of the other roofs watching,

Whose tops  are the same color of faraway deserts and deep blue oceans,

And even the noble homes,

The learned homes;

Whose tops include chimneys,

(And monocles)

(& tentacles certain times of the year)

Whose shingles

Know all  too well what smoke smells like,

Marvel at the bottles of half empty sports drinks that balance on the very

Edges of

This roof in flux.

-Knowing damn well they will never know what it is like to be recycled

Looking like perched birds on  a line,

Parrots of so many colors,

That have no place here among this cacophony of

Fire & brimstone.

Missing their rain-forests,

Missing their canopies.

Still they stand firm amidst

Heavy footsteps and

The pounding of the nail-gun,

Identifying  more and more  with claps of distant thunder,

Instead of the buzzing of  grasshoppers.

In more prehistoric times then these,

The reoccurring smell

&

Overall theme of  the thick black tar,

Coupled with the screams of velociraptors

&

Sheer magnitude of meteorites,

Usually would be indicative of a certain demise

&

In the best case scenario would lead to

Intact fossilization for future introspection inspection

(The Hall of Fame, in a way)

But these surrounding homes bear the acrid smell

Of the burning bones of dinosaurs

&

Phone-books

&

The screams of birds, evolved.

They embrace all the chaos.

They embrace all the construction.

The massive craters left by devoid  asteroids  were long ago filled with water,

&

 so many  lakes came to be;

Named mostly after ordinary names,

So

Water-skiers out in the deep being pulled by speeding boats

(Built and bound by fiberglass)

 And even the  children  wading in the shallows,

(Also built and bound by fiberglass)

Who will one day walk tightropes…

Who will one day walk tightropes…

Can observe and watch this home  gradually gain a new perspective.

Stand and clap  on the shorelines the home  gains a new and exciting hat.

This roof,

Formerly a smile missing teeth…on picture day.

Is now a roof to be reckoned with…on picture day.

A roof with an audience and a purpose.

Sticks and stones whipped up by the wildest tornadoes

Bounces right off,

Like artillery shells rolling off of armor;

Rain drops fall and immediately roll off  into the new

Stainless steel gutters,

Stainless steel spaceships,

Flowing faster in this vacuum then they ever did in the sky,

& being  so grateful for it,

Only to be expelled from the conduit

In a fashion similar to that of a waterfall  roaring off a cliff,

But there is no lagoon for the water to land here;

Instead it ends up spilling out

Next to the musty garage,

That houses a generator that has been colonized by spiders

&

Old newspapers, that have colonized countless oil spills.

Reaching its final destination ,

&

Then it will pool, and sink into the earth.

Near an old bicycle that never made its way to the curb.

Near the old triceratops that never made its way to the curb, either.

Neither of which ever got the lead in the school play;

Neither of which ever had the chance to walk the tightrope…

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.