It occupies a small portion of

Unfinished land.

In a sector of a nearly finished product.

An aluminum can,

Surely bought for a bargain.

Shines,

In the sun,

So nicely.

 So nicely,

In the sun.

The can is empty,

But far from it.

This aluminum relic,

That would rival any sunken ship,

Home to so many deceased centipedes.

The can

Can only stand by

And observe,

Birds & balloons,

Floating above billboards and

Necessary sunsets.

The float the can was apart of

Was of the root-beer variety.

Although it’s carbonation long ago evaporated,

Plenty of invisible pressure still

Exhibits exuberance to the creeping weeds,

To the climbing ivy.

And it builds,

Like a city.

Like an explosion.

And one day,

Perhaps as so many

Other arbitrary possessions before it,

Before the time of the can,

As a monument,

As a grounded satellite .

Before the eastern origins of origami,

Reached western pizza-parlors,

(And soon terrorized napkins everywhere.)

This can,

Contained itself.

Contained it’s spirit.

In a way,

In such an unimaginable way.

A cold counterpart.

A fleeting outline of itself.

An incomplete sketch, done in darkness.

It is where symmetry stands firm.

And irregularity is washed away like watercolor

In a hurricane.

Realized and then forgotten,

In the same moment,

By the very same architects.

Quicker than a blink.

But slower than a lightning strike.

With more poignancy than an empty vending machine.

Two at a time,

Is how they usually follow.

Carefully positioned over a

Colder shoulder,

These colder shadows.

And even under frequent incubation,

They will indisputably retain they’re glacial glow.

&

All the

Worldly wildlife,

Rife with carbon

(& Such sweet fruit.)

Have these shadows.

(In spades)

And as the raccoon’s playfully sneak up on unsuspecting garbage cans,

And as an inhibited shooting star propels itself through the throws of a

  Spilled-milk-atmosphere.

These relatives have the same shadows.

Even when it’s below freezing.

Even when space is involved.

A vile filled with

Vinegar,

And water,

(And some other inactive ingredients)

(Oil noticeably absent in this scenario)

Resembles in

Shape

&

Clarity

An ordinary vase,

For some flowering plant to sprout.

Bought not from

A  roadside boutique,

That would emphasize an affinity for both

Flora

&

Fauna

But instead from

A  crowded grocery store

That plays music that

Cant

Ever

Seem

To

Be

Heard

That also

 Somehow specializes in both,

Pest control

&

Garden-hoses.

 Stored  on cold metal shelves,

Next to

Painted fish

Trapped in tanks,

Living on shelves,

Swimming in such bright lights,

Breathing  in the luminescence,

Instead of the water.

But the smell,

The poison,

From this treacherous trap,

Punctuates

&

Permeates,

Clinging to the near-by counter-tops,

That are already littered with crumbs from

A recently consumed bagel.

(Cockroaches already having fled the scene, once the lights became apparent)

Inviting all other insects from all around to dance here,

Even the congregation of reverent mantes attends,

Blessing the ceremony

With both

Their presence

&

Their scythes.

They are not exempt, though.

They too will dance their final dance.

And pray their final prayers.

For a  full months time,

(Excluding leap-years)

It will become an almost permanent fixture.

An acrylic mausoleum.

Getting washed for free by

Accidental splashes

Of

Synthetic lavender

&

Very real lemon juice.

So to retain it’s shine,

&

It’s effervescent splendor.

In addition to being the recipient

Of

Of many misplaced sun-beams,

Through fragmented kitchen windows,

Obviously meant for other commodities.

Looking more

&

More like a movie -star every day.

Looking more and more,

Like a statue,

Every day.

And as idle idols will insist,

A persuasion will ensue.

Sugar

&

Salt particles,

(Alpha & Omega)

Will gather at the base

Of  the eventual sarcophagus.

Gradually dissolving the line

Between,

Pet and pest,

And exponentially increasing

The ubiquitous  appeal  of the trap every day.

Even to the throng of

Spiders that spin webs like wizards,

 Because even these casual ingredients,

Sugars,

&

Spices

(Spiders also included)

 Know that,

So long, as

The disingenuous trap remains,

Presiding over the lawless kitchen,

(Like a proud sheriff.

Of a tumble-weed town.)

Steadily infecting it with the stench of

Deception

(And vinegar, still)

The

Cruel wax-paper replacement,

The tasteless,

The odorless

Entity.

(With no relation to the sticky-note)

Wont

And cant be the next dignitary to take the stage.

The wax paper doesn’t discriminate

(Or know the difference)

Between

 Consumables

&

Arthropods

Ingesting

&

Then digesting both

Spider

&

Spice,

Would become a matter of simple circumstance.

Reducing them to  a perpetual state of visceral fluidity.

Like the prehistoric tar-pits,

That are the obvious predecessors.

The original museums.

 

It is perhaps

A modern day Roanoke.

(Although this colony is shrouded in significantly less mystery)

(And much less alleged tragedy)

A wicker basket, containing

This buffet of buttons and belts,

This cacophony of socks.  

Inclined to simply subsist in the presence of

The persistent existence

Of so many

Mundane sundries.

However,

At one point,

The socks were cautiously awaiting general passivity.

To be

&

To not to be.

(Worn)

Tucked away

&

Turned inside out,

Like

Inverted caterpillars

In cocoons made of wool.

Sleeping.

Sleeping.

Resting atop

Pretentious suspenders

&

Discarded

Price tags.

A regular bed of leaves.

But now,

The legion of socks

Have been separated

(For the second time)

From the ranks of various other garments,

And  now lay stuffed between

The grungy reaches

Of

The

Side

By

Side

Sister appliances.

(That are more antonym than synonym)

From beneath the depths,

From between the rumbling machines,

The socks watch

A slow world unfold

In shadows.

Delicate sweaters

Hang

Like majestic banners,

Before a colorful battle.

Dancing slowly

Like elegant royalty,

When a door opens

&

Retreating when it closes.

 Floating

Miles

&

Miles

Above,

Gradually growing more  and more stale than the

Already artificial Ficus,

With each passing minute.

These sweaters

&

Shirts

These sleeves and

Smocks,

Flow like a procession

Into the brighter closet light,

Carried by accomplished hands,

Into an apparent palace of reverent apparel.

And after

Every third

Or

Fourth

Cycle,

(Which translates into six or seven moons)

A broom handle or

Miscellaneous garage-tool will

Forge a path,

Guided by a now aggravated hand,

To retrieve them,

To resuscitate them.

To put them in their place.

(With the other underwear)

Sifting through pyramids

That were assembled with hot air

&

Integrated with elements from

Both

Needles

&

Haystacks

&

 Various elements of other debris so fine,

That the very dust of diamonds,

Would revert to coal.

And then to black again.

 

There are

No more molecules,

No

More vertebrates.

Thoughts or feelings.

Dot the sky,

Like

Wispy crowds of clouds,

That gather around

The water cooler,

And simultaneously aid in spilling it.

The astral  janitor,

Whose prospects have always been good,

&

Whose memory is typically

Sharp like jagged geodes,

Long ago

Let the sun burn out.

The mailman,

Whose  very  engaged feet at one point traversed the globe,

Took

A seat to feed the pigeons.

And a break from the crows.

So now the mail-boxes

Sick

With

Sin

Overflow into the streets.

Attempting to surrender.

(Hopelessly waving red-flags, because no white ones are available to them.)

 But there are still lines.

Lines.

Remain.

Amorphous space ships

Take

Ambiguous pictures,

Surrounded by a backdrop of black skies,

And attempt to

Calculate

&

Manipulate

 The  universe.

That is usually

Literally linear.

But their futility is well known.

To aliens.

To the audience.

&

To the gallery.

Parallel lines

Provide congruent

&

Ample traction for

Trains with no conductors

To

Distribute goods

To the

Smiling skeletons.

Who wear hats with feathers that are still very alive.

These lines that intersect.

Elementary school gallows reserved

For

Those who cant spell.

These lines that inspect.

Those introspective lines.

The lines that

Exist in a perpendicular,

Particular corner,

Of a world.

A forgotten apiary,

A forgotten confectionery.

 Here the few have pet polygons,

Tied to stakes

Also used to open

Empty cans,

Of

Formaldehyde

And slay

Ancient vampires.

The few here,

Who have chosen to stay.

Who have made it in a world of

Composed of

Arithmetic

&

Instruction manuals,

Whose print  is too small,

For even itself.

It’s pretentious self.

The few,

That still

Like the feeling,

The original feeling.

The state of so many unions.

The subtle warmth,

Of

Grass, underfoot.

Sloshing around,

Under a dripping

Naked body,

Between  calloused ankles

And

Tired feet that act as dams,

To

Create a soapy tide-pool.

Water that drips down

From

The alert ear-lobes,

Like melting icicles.

Luke-warm icicles.

Can be found here.

Ribbons of water

Dance like

Falling confetti  during a parade,

Thrown by troubadours and

Smiling clowns,

Coming into furious contact with

Rhyme & reason,

Abdicating

Body & mind

Of all responsibility.

Then the water becomes stagnant.

The water becomes still.

This is no watering hole,

No place for

Carnivores.

This is no blue-lagoon.

Amoebas cannot exist here,

And wear lazy island hats made of straw.

The astringent nature of the

Soaps made mostly of syrup

Do not support that type of delinquency.

This same water.

With so many talents,

Doesn’t stir,

Or froth,

For long though.

Rocking back and fourth,

In a porcelain bassinet,

Like a porcelain baby.

An artificial ocean lulled  entirely to sleep.

Because in it’s short time here,

It does its best to

Do such an  astute impression,

Of crashing waves,

Upon eroded mountain faces,

…Minus the sound.

Differentiation is utterly unclear.

Ricocheting from

House to

House

Is the

Adamant sound

Of

Hammer

&

Nail.

Coupled with the shriveling sound

Of screws,

Carving out a living

Creating pyramids of sawdust.

And somewhere specific,

Off in the distance,

Sits a can of paint.

(Its color of no importance)

The top has been left open,

For both heaven and earth to see.

The paint can shudders at the

Monotonous nature of the

Neutral shutters.

The lazy garage door yawns,

And slowly closes it’s mouth again,

…Only letting in a couple leaves this time.

The can sits below

A birds nest,

Sharing at least two

Similarities with the unborn inhabitants.

Including but not limited to

Robin’s egg blue

&

A splash of egg shell-white.

The exposed contents can be stirred up by a passing breeze,

Swallowing impurities and debris

Alike.

A careless lawn-mower may streak by,

Or a lightning strike,

Or an earthquake,

All of which are powered by velocity,

&

Gasoline

And usually occur at random,

Causing the

Idle can,

To tip.

Inadvertently creating

An avalanche of acetone.

 Capable of dissolving mirages and

Archetypes,

Alike.

And most certainly the abandoned anthills.

While the top of the can

Is left

Off to the left,

Out of harms way,

At the base of

A  nearby mailbox,

(That needs more than a coat of paint to overcome its oblique nature)

To dry

&

Crack

In the heat of the sun.

Looking much more now,

Like a misplaced  dinner plate,

Than the sun itself,

Sometimes does.

 

 

Somewhere

Out there,

Beneath the

Starry ceiling

Of the

 Milk Chocolate FM universe,

Dotted with Cotton-candy clouds

And

Plenty of

Pink & purple

Gum-drop shrubbery.

And

Just above

The grainy,

Coagulated veins

That bleeds

Constant

Blood

&

And sings no songs.

And  intersect across

A  desolate

Landscape.

Complete with

Tumble-weeds, and

Discarded cassette tapes.

Their ribbons long ago,

Ripped apart by Coyotes.

(Although still lacking in armadillos)

This Static AM wasteland.

Is haunted by one or

Two lost signals.

(Not of the smoke variety)

Some unfortunate endorsements that took

A wrong turn

On their way from

The relative safety of their

Their stationary station.

Whose

Very name-sake,

Was

Concocted

Over a hot bowl

Of alphabet soup,

With dreams of

Celebrities & synthesizers

That could be spread

Amongst the various other air-waves

Like finger-paint.

By infinite antennas.

For all to enjoy.

Now they

Swim

Aimlessly,

Splashing around inside

Electric tubes,

Electric water slides,

That hover

Alongside

The crowded interstate.

(Like guardrails)

These signals call out!

To their

Mothers

Or

Microphones.

Mumbling words like

Sunscreen

And cataract.

And not much else.

They do not receive a response.

Nary a whisper.

Just some

Screeching

&

Other miscellaneous feedback.

That  says quite a bit more,

Than any milk carton, ever could.

It is only seen,

When

Eyes move rapidly,

And

The smoke has all but cleared.

And the late-night game-shows begin to

Give away all the answers.

And

Standing

In

The

Corner

With a hat

Or

Two or three.

Like a sleuth,

Dressed in stealth.

(Inadvertently tucked into the shadows)

Perhaps it is a

Cast iron Christmas tree,

And it’s ornaments

Are not  quite so trivial.

Sometimes it is an intruder.

Yet this only lasts a moment.

It is a piece of furniture

That is considered everything, but.

The often confused coat-rack,

This pillar of servitude.

A visible extension of

The closet

That is

Too shy

For its own good,

Spreads its arms,

&

Welcomes all  travelers.

&

Takes jackets wet or dry.

Offers stability to a room

Where the  decorated mantle is selfishly

The center of attention.

It will gather dust,

Like any other

Resident, but

It will so,

With astounding resolve.

It might even have the

Only and distinct

Pleasure

(Among the other household contestants.)

(For  at least the length of a rain-storm)

To know what it’s like,

To actually hold an umbrella.

It can be a place for the hats,

To hang

Their weary heads.

Then the  silent sleep timer,

Goes off,

On the tired television.

Filled with tired applause.

And all the living eyeballs,

That barely cling to cognition.

Finally shut.

Finally.

&

The apparition.

The coat-rack,

Can be just that.

Above the green  trees,

And below the clouds

And their wet,

Balmy stomachs

Full to bursting

With

Meloncoly.

Stands a robot in

The midst of a jungle.

A blinking  blue light  sits atop

It’s  chrome antenna,

Signaling to airplanes,

So not to scratch the flawless

Priceless,

Aluminium

and

Returning the phonecalls,

From the lighthouses,

From lightyears ago.

Every so often,

A daring strand

Of intrepid ivy

Will

Attempt to climb

This

Digital beanstalk.

(Accidently bypassing the ladder)

Only to be peeled away by

The electric fingers of

Progress.

Incoming radiowaves

Circle around

The tip.

Like many halos.

Or circling sharks.

It’s constant buzzing,

Reverberates the world surrounding it,

Sucessfully drowning

Out

Barking dogs

And innundated vaccums,

(That roar louder than the screaming sun)

And

The

Constant

Clink

Clink

Clink

Of misunderstood silverware.

Although,

Upon further inspection,

(By the universe,  sitting down now)

Of this titanium titan,

A simple diagram

Complete with colorful instructions,

Would

Have easily

Said more.

Much more.

(And saved more space)