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.

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.