Rolling over stationary rocks,

In this glaucous pond,

With a raucous audience

 Watching with a reserved enthusiasm,

Fingers crossed,

Waiting for a leg to be broken.

During this dance.

Next to an off-white hospital,

But never free from injury.

This slight waterfall,

Never rushing at a obscene pace,

Like many runaway rivers sometimes do,

Instead only trickling along,

Providing silence for the herrings that stalk the microscopic

Tadpoles,

With strikes similar to lightning.

(In the same motion and breath as a shovel to moist soil)

That upon extermination,

Send tidal waves throughout this fragile ecosystem.

Sending seismic waves that rattle sunken

Limbs and leaves,

Distributed from the top-heavy trees hanging just above this body of water,

(Too afraid to dive all the way in)

Limber lumber engaging in decomposition

Beneath the creases of  the careful ripples,

Beneath the waves,

Shedding skins,

Changing colors.

Beneath the waves.

Occasionally a tin  can riverboat

It’s minuscule slot machines long ago cashed out by lucky ghosts,

That left behind only empty glasses,

Ice cubes still slowly melting.

Next to the dead machines.

So someone would be able to have a second drink.

Or

Some other virtuous debris,

Some elaborate yachts,

Chartering these open waters,

These open green waters.

Green with both envy and plight.

Find their way into the deepest depths of

Detention

Of this  polluted retention pond.

Initially,

The invisible captains of these

Valiant vessels,

Stand atop the crows-nest,

Sword by their side,

Eye to eye with

So many enemies,

As well as the

Many varieties of mockingbirds,

That the sky has to offer.

But upon finding their way to a nearby bank,

Buoyant complacency silently boards the ships,

In the form of drowsy sea-sickness

Formulates a barbarous mutiny,

Spreading from one snoring mouth to another,

And capsizes the captain.

Who weeps over his not-yet-buried treasure

Then checks the first mate.

And the empty vessels become slaves to the howling wind,

At the very beck and call of the breeze.

Now slowly crawling towards the event horizon,

Empty except for seashells,

Empty except for excerpts,

Anticipating its diluted conclusion,

Ready for it’s layover among  so many other cascading droplets,

All carrying briefcases,

All set to attend the same seminar.

That is the slight waterfall,

That is the slight displacement,

From one ocean to another.

One planet to another.

One pane of glass,

To another.

Unheralded saucers of service.

Accompanied  by

Blue teacups

And blue feelings.

Cobalt stained reincarnations of Icarus,

Who at one point flew too close to the sun,

Like icarus

While being carried across the kitchen,

By trembling hands,

And crashed,

Onto a floor stained with sticky wine.

Over a glossy ocean finished with linoleum.

Rearranged  into thousands of

Tiny fragments,

Tiny bones,

Forming the principals  of an

Anatomical mosaic.

A muscular masterpiece,

Orchestrated   by cardiovascular conductors,

Who long ago handed their baton to the next runner,

Always a  slower runner.

In a much  slower race,

Whose eyes were long ago,

Spurned

&

Afterwards burned.

But not by the  rays of  the  ultra-violent television,

But by making the grave mistake of

Standing over the oven,

Intently watching  water boil,

Instead of adhering to the

Universal allure of

 Wet paint.

&

The unique chemistry involved in

It’s drying process.

Although  this task is undertaken on the

Canvas that is  the four walls of a different room

An adjacent room.

A room with carpet,

…And a closet.

Whose use is

To be determined.

And whose vacancy is

To be determined.

This room absorbs the paint,

And it’s simultaneous smell,

Drawn and quartered.

So not to compete with the  wafting fragrances of the forgotten recipes,

Of the kitchen,

That are tucked so  carefully into the precise folds of the wallpaper,

That are just now slowly beginning to yellow and  peel.

Like the bananas on top the fridge,

Like the phone-book tucked beneath the sink.

 However there is one

 Criminally overlooked aspect of the previously stated  emulsion,

And it’s labyrinthine involvement in

The  drying process.

And it’s effect on the condemned room.

It will assuredly reduce the dimensions of the aforementioned

Adjacent room.

Ultimately,

&

Silently,

Inch by inch,

Coat after coat.

Like a hovering vulture,

Whose plumage isn’t definite.

Proposing an equation

Equal to infinity,

As an answer to

The rooms hollow,

Humble problems.

Problems,

That the kitchen

And it’s blue plates,

Will never share.

Nearly  everyday,

(That the sun shines)

Every hot day,

Looking up,

&

Not being able to see the top.

(And where the sun doesn’t shine)

A tiny brown lizard,

The reptilian replica of a gatekeeper.

A sentient sentinel.

Exposing emaciated ribs with every breath,

Every subtle breath,

(Mimicking the wind in terms of amplification)

Waits for something.

It waits for

Fallen moths

&

Pizza deliveries

Eyes rolling around in their sockets

As he keeps constant watch,

On a nearby

Rarely used,

Electrical socket.

That provides no power.

As mailman busy feet

&

Seasons pass,

The lizard will occasionally take shelter

In a neighboring crevice,

In a neighboring cave,

(Since he has no tent to pitch)

(Still  no complaints to file,though)

Bohemian in nature,

Simple in perspective,

A bike-rack off in the distance,

Only accessible

Through thickets of grass

Piled with fallen kites,

Shredded by

Sharp winds

&

Sharper scissors

That distant destination.

Looks to him,

Like a  rusty power plant,

That shines brighter than

The  peaceful moon,

&

The streetlights combined.

Simple syntax

&

Other forms of communicable communications,

Are not understood here,

Under these stairs.

Clumps of discarded

Bubblegum,

Begin to form the base of mountains,

At the base of these stairs,

Impervious to  both erosion,

&

Digestion,

 Parked cars and

Passerby’s.

He will have no epics written on his behalf,

Never will he drink from the immortal waters of the river Styx,

No journeys with Jason & his  Argonauts,

(Or even  other worldly astronauts)

He will however

Be immortalized in italics

Captivated in captions.

Beloved by biology.

Behind the sterile glass,

And through the sterile doors,

Sterile elevator music plays,

(Although it is almost entirely muted.)

Accompanied by an educational film,

Accompanied by the piercing sound of drilling.

Primitive magazines top the tables,

Documenting the  important on-goings of

Style

&

 The elasticity of  life,

While casually mentioning  a piece about

Dwindling farmland.

Providing only a temporary resting place for

Any dust

Brave enough to lend its cursory services in

Such a pragmatic setting.

Through the door,

Near where the customary aquarium usually would stand.

Is the teeth of the whole office.

The sharp,

Golden teeth.

Green vinyl chairs

That are tastelessly garnished in

Transparent sheets,

That aid in sanitation,

As well as decoration.

Appear  to lazily  recline,

As if they have nothing better to do,

However this is their preemptive position.

To be patient.

For the patients.

Tools laid precisely out,

In a particular order,

Waiting to infiltrate,

Waiting to fill the vulnerable mouth full of some foreign  numbing agent,

A chemical that in both nature

&

Composition,

Is stickier than a melted candy-cane.

But by no means taste the same.

Waiting for that soluble solution to take its hypnotic hold,

So that

The other forces involved can push the tongue around

Like an unfair schoolyard fight.

Waiting to scrape the teeth

And shine lights so bright,

…Light so bright and blue,

That the enamel has to retreat,

Leaving behind his many  crowns  in the process.

The exposed royalties now

Reduced to bleeding gums,

Clinched fists,

&

Muffled hail-marys.

 A lingering taste of vinegar,

Is left behind in this wake,

(Along with scores of slain bacteria)

With a hint of minty fluoride.

 …Accompanied by the piercing sound of drilling.

That still rings…

That all but drowns out traffic on the way home.

But does nothing to prevent,

The cruel stoplights from

Doing their job.

 

Placed among the various other

Bins

& Baskets

In a section of the supermarket,

That doesn’t affiliate in any way

With the bread aisle,

(Except when it comes to fruit, extracted.)

Off in the corner,

Disguised among the regal

 Colors

Of the Oranges and

Limes,

Hide the  elusive Tangerines.

And outside a  strong wind blows,

& Wind-chimes are for sale,

Easily advertising themselves,

By allowing  nobody to speak for them,

And creating sounds like church bells.

In a parking lot emptier than a graveyard.

Caravans of customers

Come from

Municipal mansions and trailers alike,

Adorned with feather boas,

…While stepping over escaped boas.

To

Pick and choose

The best of the very best,

At this bizarre bazaar.

Usually ignoring the corn

&

Inspecting the  apples,

With x-ray eyes,

Down to their very core.

Busy feet scuffle and kick,

Bumping the shelves,

Advocating minor avalanches,

(Minus the ash)

Causing some insects to take cover,

Or be frozen in time…

Without the snow…

Without the snow…

The tangerines hold firm though.

Under the radar,

Like sonar.

Stacked in a way as if mimicking a pyramid,

While serving the very same purpose.

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead,

Providing a secure feeling of incubation,

Keeping the fruit warm.

Keeping the people warm.

&

Illuminating the  important numbers on the receipts,

At the end of each transaction.

The  mysterious tangerines go for 1.38 per pound.

But can never be found.

Their designated area is frequently empty.

Their coffin is frequently unoccupied.

But a dollar thirty eight,

Is still

A bargain considering

The nearly intangible/Tangerine,

Is equal in price to

What the color of the sun,

Would bring at auction.

At some point

Every day,

The spot is empty,

Curious versions of vacancy leaning more

 And more towards optimism.

As the sun-dial silently strikes,

And professes from it’s bellows,

A resounding nothing.

Meaning something.

It isn’t ever empty or full because of its relative proximity to the

Equator

Or

Some nearby front door.

 Because it is equal distance from both.

But after that initial time

Of being empty,

Whilst running on fumes,

Whilst watching dragons fly,

Its two faded white boundaries,

May be

Painted

Over

&

Over

Again.

Never withstanding the elements for very long.

Inside these

Perpendicular penitentiaries

(That have no bars)

These barriers that corral  sleeping cars like

Animals under a tranquil spell.

Placed by a wizard in a white coat.

 Many invisible tethered horses,

Inevitably will whine as their metallic  hooves

Crush bottle-caps,

&

Stomp out fires

&

Swat at the swarms of poisonous flies,

 That surround the

Tiny unnamed lakes of oil.

That will know evaporation long before they know exploration,

And that have the uncanny  ability,

To change color like

A brilliant reptile,

Or a science-class prism.

There are other peculiar happenings,

Inside those two white lines.

After no certain amount of traffic

Casually comes

&

Goes,

&

As the afternoon noisily  buzzes…towards infinity.

And the cicadas gaily sing along…towards infinity.

Some tentative residents

Who stare from closed windows,

(Locked of course)

Imagine eggs,

Scrambled or otherwise,

Burning on that hot  ground,

Providing a dirty,

But necessary breakfast.

(Minus the pancakes)

As they selfishly keep their own eggs to themselves,

Tucked away in pastel crates,

Pastel cribs that comfortably seat two dozen.

Two dozen individual  conundrums.

Seated in that pink auditorium,

Made mostly of Styrofoam.

Mostly providing puns and the occasional

Yolk.

And then the spacial parking spot is  partially on it’s own again,

As a few casual coins subsequently join the asphalt dinner party.

Circular traces of Copper and Nickel are reluctantly abundant here,

In an otherwise periodic sea of ultra-violence

&

 Motor-oil

&

Turmoil.

Powerless power-lines that tower overhead like nesting condors,

Welcome the tiny currency.

As the new guests to the space.

As the new ghosts to the space.

They are  both the rent and the

Tenants of this space,

And the penance of the parking lot.

(This new world)

Accompanied only by  an army  of ants.

And ministries of microscopic gravel

(Who are ordained in both diplomacy, and geology)

That  fervently protects  this fortune,

This good fortune,

From beast and

Foot alike.

Until a  passing grasshopper becomes complacent.

This fortunate coinage.

Gaining convection as they bake at high noon,

Gaining momentum as they bake at high noon.

Providing more protein than any

Imaginary egg,

Scrambled or otherwise.

 Against the backdrop

Of light from

A

Candle.

A cup of pens begins to glow,

And becomes a basket of fruit,

…Still glowing.

A coffee cup,

Filled with pens,

&

Markers,

(While ostensibly lacking in erasers.)

&

Not with coffee,

Not with energy.

Proposes a rhythmic speculation,

To the glittering constellations.

And  to the archaic few who still read the paper on Sundays.

What once was

A cup of pens,

Completely capable of outlining Andromeda in her entirety.

So very proficient in the process

Of illustration

&

Allusion,

That tape-measures recoil like ashamed rattlesnakes.

But  disguised as a basket of fruit,

This manger of pens.

Becomes a cornucopia,

Bursting with both

Primary

Ideas

&

 Flashes of secondary

Color,

That carpool together to observe an intermediate symposium,

While regrettably  forgetting the synopsis of symbolism,

On the bureau,

Back at home.

Whose very composition,

Is almost  exactly identical to most fruits,

Down to their very genomes.

Down to the number of seeds.

Down to their very core.

These temporary pens become so much more.

In the perspective of specters.

Stroke by stroke,

&

Step by step,

(Across some very hot-coals)

They have the ability to reach out to a world,

(Sometimes without the use of  fancy words)

(Or high-definition pictures)

And produce dreams

&

Fountains

&

Armadillos that scurry across busy intersections,

To dig in secret gardens.

And demonstrate to the rest of everything,

That

A basket of unusual  fruit,

A basket of inherent implements,

Has no problem,

Shouldering the load,

Like a hitchhiking tramp,

(Thumb pointed towards the horizon.)

That existence isn’t measured  by

Crescendos

& other various resistances.

Simply being recognized as sweet or sour,

&

So long as they

Can be held,

Can be cradled

And nurtured

Only a certain way,

That only the bosom of the supple curtains can provide,

(While still blocking out the sun)

And held by the exceptional grip of

The write hands.

The same hands.

The same fingers.

The same knives.

That writhe like earthworms,

That aggressively clamor on,

About being  put back into the ground.

Away from the dangerous canopy.

And the hungry canaries.

Just beyond the precious silver screen,

(Not of the cinematic variety)

(Obviously of the window variety)

 The piles of

Frosty moths that fill the galvanized sill,

(The galvanized trenches.)

Who were unfortunately unable to get out of

The way of the transparent guillotine.

And all its crushing weight.

That and their short life-cycles.

Are the consequences of their actions.

The consequence of exploration.

A group of shoes lounge,

Like a sleeping cat,

 Laces blowing in the breeze,

Like whiskers,

Like tentacles,

Like tentacles underwater.

These are not forgotten shoes.

On the contrary!

A pair for every occasion! 

This scene would be enough to make any cobbler smile.

These beautiful creations,

Meant to protect

The vulnerable heels

Of a creature

That so recklessly

Steps on the eggs of vultures.

But then takes them off when

They begin to count sheep,

…While quickly losing count.

…While quickly losing count.

This masterpiece arranged carefully in a compromised pile.

By an acclimated,

Well adjusted jury.

A conscripted stack of soles.

A treasury of souls.

Enlisted and tied tightly.

With ears like a rabbit.

Ready for battle at the slightest provocation.

No wads of wayward gum have made the

Pilgrimage.

They were scraped onto

A concrete curb long before this,

Exiled before this era began.

Before these eons began.

Distanced from the humble socks,

These resilient cleats,

Are not running from any conflict.

(However they still provide the most adequate grip)

If running was indeed necessary.

This journey to the ledge of window,

This voyage to higher ground.

Wasn’t a long one.

They only came from the floor.

They easily came from the floor.

With the intentions of pushing all of their monumental efforts,

(As well as their stories)

Through the microscopic cracks in a pane.

To share with the rest of the silent world.

To absolve them of their faux pas.

To dissolve any preexisting premonitions.

Spinning stories of

Championing athletes,

Raising torches

Grinding their teeth.

And work,

So much work.

Mostly work.

Dreaming of outside again,

Dreaming of morning again.

 And of grass,

So much grass

And sand

But mostly sand.

Amongst the blowing

Trees,

Taller than the stilts

Made from

The exoskeletons

Of said trees.

Sits,

Or in this case,

Floats

A single pink balloon.

It’s prologue is written and

Buried in some

Lost & found container

(A treasure chest would be to easy to find)

At the bottom of

Some hill,

Somewhere else.

Away from the balloon entirely.

To its audience,

In this case,

 Greasy tree-trimmers

And

Barefoot tree climbers alike

Who fight with sticks that

Cut like

Real swords.

It has become

A spectacle.

A trophy.

A fiscal responsibility.

Bobbing from branch to

Branch,

(Like an apple, bobbing in both confusion and water)

Ironically dodging

The unpredictable likes of the

Symbiotic squirrels,

And the pointy tips of the acorns that

They so desperately desire.

From afar,

Throngs of nouns,

Engaging in various verbs,

Pay no attention to the isolated balloon.

And continue to engage in various other sciences.

So many chemists,

So many ceramicists,

Could easily draw up a plan to spare the

Helpless balloon from

A

Noisy

&

Cliche fate.

 And as gradual deflation begins,

And the balloon looks like it is melting

(Like a misplaced scoop of ice cream)

To the few,

Who are now paying attention.

Who are now licking their lips.

And still no eulogy is written.

The  death of the balloon is

Accompanied only by the roaring of chainsaws

And the

Rattling sound of woodpeckers.

That  solemnly believe in uncovering what is not theirs.

The balloons goodbye is the third song sung that day.

A  tertiary soliloquy,

For such a noble gas,

In disguise.

At one point,

It hung in a tall tree,

In a dilapidated corner of

A derelict front-yard.

Hung by a child

Fascinated by aviation,

Or by an unknown hand from the heavens,

Like a cosmic Christmas ornament,

For future spacemen,

Standing proudly, dressed in titanium suits.

(While still as vulnerable as medieval knights)

Legend,

Or

Scripture has it.

On a tea-spoon of good faith,

That the birdcage was initially forgotten.

Placed on the back-burner

Like a cooling dessert,

In a vacant neon desert.

It would comfortably  stay in that tree.

And  comfortably sway in that tree.

As time

&

Space

&

Coincidences

Passed by like credits

At the end of a good-movie.

Even the tree began to show it’s age.

It’s leaves, frequently leaving.

But the birdcage never wavered.

When the rain came,

The birdcage did not ask for an umbrella.

It provided shelter for  it’s often tentative occupants.

And sang along with it’s sworn enemies.

This birdcage could have done so many things.

It could have superseded all the computers.

And done all they’re math.

It could have

Gone all twelve rounds.

So many things,

But instead it swung content in a state of perpetual suspension,

Like a clock.

While not keeping the slightest bit of time.

And did something that

So many things

Don’t have the stomach

Or fortitude,

Or altitude.

To do.

While staring down the barrel of inevitable oxidation.

Provided by the temperate nature

Of rain and air.

The birdcage,

Quite simply,

Hung up there.

Hung in there.