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.

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.