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.

The gracious

Aspects

That clarifies the very vertical,

Almost ethereal nature of

Latitude,

(Accessed only  by ladders and various other aircraft’s)

And  the spatial integrity of longitude,

The horizontal cousin.

With a history of excessive longing.

These directions have similar qualities,

Consisting of  some the very same calcium,

And sharing minuscule  proponents of gravity,

 That  also define the same,

(Albeit, slight)

Differences,

Between

Stalactites & stalagmites

(Along with the number of bats, who usually prefer balcony seating)

Once the tidal waters stop rushing,

And the tiny boat,

Can cast it’s tiny line,

And wait for a  calculated struggle,

With the tremendous sea monsters

Lurking beneath,

That speak volumes to whales,

That speak volumes amidst volumes,

Those same sea monsters,

Waiting for those same lines,

Those  colorful lures,

Cast from the crows nest,

…In more danger now than they will ever know

Performing a watery dance,

Performing a diluted ballet.

For an obviously underwhelmed audience of invertebrates.

 A twirling

Ballerina spinning in shaken snow-globe,

Choking on salt instead of snow.

Trapped inside that same shaken snow-globe,

Envying the  miraculous pearls

That are also trapped, but for good reason.

To evade the jewel thieves.

The decorative lures sink deeper,

Just to go the opposite direction as the bubbles do.

To breathe with the currents.

To be with the currents.

To sword-fight with the stingrays,

&

Untie the shoestring seaweed that floats

In very deliberate  knots.

With only one  direction in mind.

With only one letter of the alphabet in mind.

With the Phoenicians in mind.

Like lost trash-bags.

Like floating jellyfish.

Laid out like blankets,

Scattered trinkets laid about,

Trying to find space among the

Crowds of

Cracked sprockets and

Rusty whistles

(Who  now do little more than

Rattle at this point)

And perforated Christmas cards

…That melt like snowmen in the summer

…That melt like snowmen in the summer

Line the tops of these

Furious folding tables.

Fabricating a patchwork table cloth,

A spiders web of junk.

While still maintaining  specific identity as well

As an unique price.

A bin of green army men

Missing their  guns

Missing their mission

Wearily watch for any signs of enemy movements.

Surveying the adjacent tables,

Some piled with rolling hills of washed denim,

Casually hiding some miscellaneous pocket change,

Casualties buried beneath pocket lint.

The lead table,

The only island

To which the magnetic collectors gravitate towards,

Like orbiting stars.

Absorbs all life,

Absorbs all money,

Haggling is a treacherous language here,

That can cut like scimitars

That can drown out blaring radios.

These watches and

Copper pendants

These Ferrous few,

Are worth more than their respective weight in scrap,

Worth more than all the false rubies and

Any amount

(Measured even in cubic feet)

Of cubic zirconia

They are worthy of their own category.

They are  both the kings and queens of this bazaar.

Costume jewelry take off their masks as they approach.

Plastic brooches beseech themselves,

Politely turning up their collars.

And from far away, off hiding in a  crate on the

Luscious, velvet grass.

Lying amidst the grasshoppers and the scarabs,

Are the family portraits.

The mummified faces of so many not yet deceased

The family portraits that always smile.

Even when captured between pages.

Some of the pictures,

Displaying a magical moment shared between family or friends

&

Their porcelain skin captured on tiny scraps of the silver screen.

&

That porcelain moment captured on tiny scraps of the silver screen.

And then tucked in a manila envelope,

Protected by the scholarly moth balls,

Protected by so many crystal balls,

These families of faces,

Never willing to break their covalent bond,

Used now, instead

Albeit, inadvertently

As forgotten bookmarks,

In  textbooks never  quite given a reason to be finished.

…In the first place

In glossy magazines that were never quite meant to be finished,

…In the first place.

Dressed in white,

Drowning in white,

It is unclear whether

This is a custom costume,

That the armchair wears so loosely,

Worn for the sake of festivities,

Or a veil to ward off some of the more

Diabolical furniture.

Namely, the ottomans that circle the living room like

A hungry pack of wolves.

A hungry pack of foot-rests.

Never remaining in one spot for long.

This white robe,

Decorated with ketchup stains and

Ancient crumbs,

Crumbs so stale

Limestone would instead regress to talc.

The chairs vulnerable layer of suede 

Protected  only by this thin layer of cotton.

The choirs vulnerable voices layered in soprano

Projected only by a thin layer of static electricity.

This synthetic  swath

Born from the most  majestic of wombs,

&

Eventually

Spun from golden looms.

The finished product

Shines like  a silver cloud as the morning sun peeks around the curtailing curtains.

Dust does not gather here,

Dust  instead settles here.

Dust becomes diamonds here.

Underneath infinite fibers,

Underneath the creaking frame,

Where hidden sinew steadily unwinds,

Recoiling into messy piles compression,

Reclining almost  to the point  of  hibernation.

Sitting atop a hill,

(Leaning rather)

A former tree,

A former flora,

Fallen all by itself.

Roots no longer intact.

Roots never quite exact.

Separated and picked to  bits of nothing by

By-standing birds,

Who had just come from a long day of

Sitting in cautious rows,

Upon  subtle wires,

Like a dozen magicians.

Casting a dozen spells.

Upon the heads of so many,

So that these purveyors of  so many different  surveys,

That all  seem to do different  tired jobs,

At various, tired volumes.

Whose only  reprieve is achieved when temporarily resting

Under the shadow of the  petrified overpass.

But only for a moment,

Because

These monoliths are often at an impasse, themselves.

They spend so much time soliciting  flyers under these

 Radioactive skies,

And hiding from various vultures who haunt those same

Radioactive skies.

Now with this blessing,

From the  stale roots of this disembarked   tree,

They mayjust  have the slightest chance at

Withstanding the  everyday onslaught of fungus

And the ferocity of a flat tire,

And the  calculating verbosity of telekinetic telemarketers.

While still being able to exist in their favored  state of perpetual fragility.

All this expiration,

All this mediation.

From a fallen tree,

For a fallen tree.

That is already

And easily will

Be so much more,

Than a tree.

Than firewood.

The story of the uprooting,

The uprising,

And subsequent displacement,

Of this adult splinter,

Disjointed from the earth

With no help from the jagged jaws

  Of the serrated saws,

That swiftly travel through forests,

Hungry for timber,

Vehemently separating limb from life.

Leaving only leaves in its wake,

But still providing four sturdy legs,

For a future chair.

And after deforestation,

They bounce about the textured dreams of the woodsmen that wield them,

Like recently forged swords,

Like lost  musical notes,

  Reluctantly narrating kaleidoscope cartoons.

This is the origin of firewood.

This is the birth of a glow.

This fallen tree,

Once a  literal thorn in the side of a mountain,

Now a drop in a bucket.

(A bucket that stands behind the crowd, awaiting instruction)

The tree

Is tossed onto some expensive blanket of  charcoal,

With some uncomfortable  newspaper clippings,

Who are undeserving of this same fate,

&

Surrounded by glossy expensive stones,

Stacked high enough

&

Painted brightly  enough

To sustain  general fireside aesthetics.

And quiet the fireside critics.

With immolation now moments away,

This  previous tree has now become an offering,

Like the deceased village witch.

And like the martyred witch,

The eventual firewood will live on forever

Dancing well into the night,

Finally departing

In splendid ribbons of smoke,

Gradually graduating to

Inevitable cloud status,

Forgoing both posture

&

Pasture

For a life of thunderstorms.

For a causal life.

For a casual life.

While candidly watching absolutely  everything,

Almost everything.

Almost sleepwalking through the sky,

In  a trance.

A trance so requisite,

A trance so exquisite,

It borders on obsolete.

Baskets made of

Melted plastic

And welded wire,

In patterns of checkered lattice,

No pieces stacked…two high.

Forming holes large just enough for the cart to breathe,

Forming gills for the shopping cart.

Allowing the cart to focus on aerodynamics.

Allowing the cart to breath underwater.

But small enough so  that the  purchased groceries can’t escape.

Only crumbled shopping lists and

Ancient receipts are capable of this.

For some children this is a sailboat.

Coming in multitudes of color and  arrays of  different

Attitudes,

(Varying  only in the seminal category of magnitude )

Functionality makes up one third of their existence,

Maintenance and companionship make up  the other two pieces,

To this pie chart that exists in a place that frequently sells pies.

(Among other infinite pastries)

These are quintessential qualities to

Their central condition.

Trapped in prisons built entirely of

Burning brick and

Molten mortar,

Cooled only by the breath of the frozen food aisle.

They are herded like cattle at the end of each day,

A time honored practice,

In a place governed by time-clocks.

The carts will try and put their foot down,

To stay out of the  rusty corrals,

Located in the middle of the sweaty parking lots,

Trying to desperately skid to a stop.

As they are are pushed

Closer and closer towards extinction.

But some of the wheels barely touch the ground, 

Some of these same unfortunate wheels,

Who long ago lost both their bearings

And their sense of direction.

 Spin infinitely

Spin untimely.

Faster  though than any  propeller is capable of  revolving.

Faster though than any chambered bullet.

Faster than the  inevitable trajectory of umbrellas snatched up,

During a tornado.

And then left to trickle back down to earth like

Dandelion seeds.

Gathered in groups around

The warmth of the red stop signs,

Trying to avoid

The employees who wear  their  good sneakers in the rain.

Staying closest to the side with the garden section,

Clinging to the side that has the most life.

 

 

 

 

 

Locked up and

It’s

Key

Buried  beneath a

Pile of  discarded rubbish.

Hung out to dry for the world to see.

Stranded on a metal wire,

A metal wire lacking any surplus electricity.

Like some wrought-iron

Laundry,

Suspended

& Swaying.

Just beyond the reach of the sun,

Just feet away from

The

Howling mouth of the sea.

Breathing in,

And out,

Taking  the carcasses   of sun-dried starfish

Back with them.

Leaving behind the scraps of sun-dried tomatoes.

At one point such a guarded figure.

At one point avant-garde.

This  ordinarily defensive mechanism.

Now perceived as  nothing but an over sized  earring,

Hanging from the exhausted ear lobe.

Of forgotten towers.

Whose  ancient splinters mimic

The primitive nature of a cactus,

Protecting it’s precious water.

 Or an empty briefcase.

Swinging from the busy arm of

Towering telephone polls,

Who permanently persist here,

With  turned up collars  of blue,

Mimicking the nature of the sky.

Filling in the gaps between the quicksand and

Empty parking lots,

Near  former sites of historical significance,

Waiting

In

Single

File

L I N E S.

Some of these giants

Wear fedoras,

While simultaneously

Flipping quarters,

In accordance

&

Within earshot of

Black and white odds.

Black and white bylaws.

(While no one is looking)

While ostensibly   waiting for different results.

Some  of these giants,

Appearing in the most fashionable  of haircuts,

Obviously not featured in any particular magazine,

Assuredly not  attending any particular gala

Still come adorned  with curls of cable,

Weaved into intricate knots,

Resembling beehives,

Honeycombs resembling catacombs

&

Silver gaskets,

So many silver gaskets.

That shine like rhinestones.

That shine like eyes.

Atop their heads,

That are usually susceptible to exploding in a lightning storms,

Like any good business man should be, anyways.