The burnt wick.

This individual beacon.

Surrounded by scores of

Misguided  molecules

Stuck between

The fluidity of motion,

And the

Immobilizing qualities of quicksand.

Caught in the crosshairs.

Of viscosity

But not yet mounted,

(Or assembled)

In some amusing museum.

Or laboratory.

This

Fragrant,

Salt-less

Sea of red.

Lacking in tidal waves,

But plentiful with

 Peaks

And pillars

Of wax that

Almost never remain

Permanent.

 (While seamlessly mimicking mountains)

This,

Congealed continent

Inhabited by so many

Misplaced snakes,

Is only ever allowed to expand

And manifest,

Within its own confines,

 If the

Casual

&

Carnal,

Ebb & flow

Of the cautious flame,

And the simultaneous

Tides it  will provide,

Coupled  with a

 Succulent permeation,

(Reminiscent of apples)

Isn’t extinguished entirely.

He was busy making waves of his own.

Spreading out his legs,

All six of them.

In a desperate attempt to walk on water

This would be his swan song.

He could feel the

Water beginning to

Bloat his red back.

(Not red from the sun, but from science)

And wither away his feelers,

Which now resembled melted  licorice.

The bumblebees buzzing just above this scene,

With their waxy wings,

Watch from above,

Like curious buzzards.

Feeling like gods,

Until the dragonflies show up.

From the depths of that puddle,

Beneath the bewildered beetle,

A five fingered phenomenon began to surface.

 Carefully contemplating the saturated salvation of the

Struggling insect.

And at last the leviathan surfaced.

Displacing the water until

A cool breeze could be felt

Whooshing between his antennae,

Splitting the difference.

The  surface that the beetle now suddenly inhabitated,

Was a pale planet.

Flat and welcoming.

Its core obviously  warm with life.

But it’s mantle and crust shook with

Icy tremors that

Had the ability to

Undoubtedly impress

All of the universes many magistrates,

&

Magpies.

After adjusting to the initial inertia

And general

Gravity of the situation,

(And of  the unusual  planet itself)

It became apparent that

He would not be

Aquainted with  scores of underlying  bubbles.

He flicked the water from his wings,

And

Dove,

With the intention of soon seeing

Doves.

His gamble paid off,

His fragile wings barely carried him

To a nearby fence-post.

(Where the sun was shining brighter than usual)

Now miles away from that

Miraculous curiosity.

Thanking it  from afar with his precious absence.

His wings now warm with sunlight.

The invisible interstate that he soon planned to

Rejoin,

And rejoice

In up there,

Parallel to the infinite  tree-line,

&

Perpendicular to the weather vanes,

(Too concerned with vanity to be bothered  with direction)

Busy with

Bugs with names like

Lady

&

June.

In the summertime,

In early May.

It is the high rise

Of the nightstand.

That is protected from the ghosts and spirits  by the

Presence of the staunch nightlight.

It’s inhabitants are a complex group

Of

Strangers.

Fighting for space every minute,

Every time a new tenant moves in.

There is a circus of combs and

A briar patch of safety pins that

Are too agressive for their own good.

Hanging above all this,

Is a chewed piece of gum,

Watching the disorder.

This is a sanctuary for scissors.

(Of both the right & left varities)

The  in the junk drawer is

Made of playing cards,

That easily replicates linoleum.

&

Because of this,

(And the inertia created by the constant

Motion of

The drawer being carefully opened.

And then slammed shut)

Individual cotton-balls

And loose pen-caps,

Have a hard time sitting still.

Ticking watches

That long ago,

Ceased all ticking,

Lay like landmines,

In an array of random anonymity.

Across this wasteland of miscellaneous forbidden fruits.

It’s that key

Surrounded by

So many others.

Others that have lost sight of their particular lock,

Others that look like they were

Chewed up and spit out.

But still hanging on,

Clinging to

(Life)

And

That crowded key ring,

Just in case.

This is that certain key,

Already plenty bent,

 Bending slightly more

With the arrival of every new day,

(But not quite a skeleton key, just yet)

Whose purpose is everything.

Yet it is reserved for nothing.

Every night the key spends

Hanging from

A hook

Under  a basket,

Aptly titled

“Lost and found”

 Conversating with expired coupons

And

Observing the

Light & dust

That trickles in

After being funneled through the

Narrow ,

Hollow

Keyhole.

It turns in the same manner and motion

As the water

Flushed in the toilet,

And unlocks in a manner simular to a black hole,

(Simultaneously releasing & exploding)

Partisans and particles alike.

It is the only other

Constant,

(Aside from the belt buckle and occasional pocket knife)

That knows what  the strength of x-rays feel like.

The key is aware of the magnitude of magnets.

And

Sometimes it lays dormant,

Under the

Door-mat

Providing necessary entry for attentive neighbors,

(Who’s  only alternative would be burglary)

If not for the courtesy of the key,

Whilst the owners

Vacant

Home,

Takes a vacation of its own.

---

A small

Sliver of

Formerly formidable

Concrete

Has stumbled upon the shoreline,

Gasping for air,

While simultaneously searching

For

Structure.

Scattered among the seashells,

Wayward pieces from an ancient Atlantis,

Or a miscellaneous  fragment

Of

A currently

Submerged bridge,

(That has just now come to terms with the inevitability of erosion)

This drifting debris,

Literally swimming with the fishes,

And

Rubbing

Elbows with the eels.

Telling fables

Of

 Noisy transportation,

That none

Of

The surrounding

Marine biology believes.

It reaches out for the deep sea hooks,

That

Dance

And dangle

Just out of reach,

Tempting schools

Of

Foolish fish

And they have become like occasional

Christmas ornaments,

For the

Sedentary sediment to marvel at.

(Ironically appearing less frequently in December, though)

Buried

And

Then

Uncovered by some

Flailing tail,

And

Then buried again.

Movement is at a minimum.

But this concrete has

Definite plans,

It aspires to once again,

Scrape the sky,

Or perhaps

Be a part

Of

A

House

Of

Lights.

This chip of cement,

Smiles as

Hurricanes & Typhoons

Pass over,

And

Sweep the ocean floor clean of

The oceans first born,

And spread seaweed

Onto the shores of archipelagos,

To  temporarily shackle the ankles of fisherman,

That wade carelessly in tide-pools.

But still the

Rock

Rests,

Inching closer

To

Far-away shores,

Knowing that,

If it is ever discovered,

By a

Lifeguard

Or

Mason

That

Happens

To

Be on vacation,

The most significant

Contribution,

It can ever

Make,

Is

Probably being

A simple

Slice

Of a mosaic masterpiece,

Which

At it’s best,

Is only a disengaged puzzle,

But even something

This

Set-in-stone,

Is still very open to interpretation.

I Glancing down
From a heavenly perspective,
Placing perplexities aside

And accompanied ceremoniously by beautiful botany,
Bred only on the finest of balconies.
The surveying of a
Particular
Partial

Plot,

Cut out amongst the infinitely subtle curvature,

On this section of the sphere begins.

II The gray skies empty their cumbersome buckets,
All at once.
Sending most of the
Participating precipitation,
To the ground to form soapy puddles,
Forcing them to fill tiny leaf-lifeboats,
That will almost certainly capsize.

III The superb storm rattles
Old doors,
And the much younger,
Transparent windows.
Phasing virtually every structure,
(Except the Gazebos)

…Home to an assembly of daddy long-legs
And shrouded in,
(And also protected by)
Ancient graffiti.

IV Out of respect for the bright lightning,
Most lights,
If for only just a moment,
Hum quietly,

Hypnotized in a trance of darkness.
While laying idle amongst the electrified cobwebs.

V All this commotion carefully induced by wizards,
Who sit in
Good,
Green chairs,
And manipulate
The moon and its globally nomadic tides.

VI Color has become both infinite,
And extinct at the same time.
Blown in successive breaths
From the belly of a noble wind,
Corresponding closely with the
Very epitome of the universes rendition of subsequent arithmetic,
That it will take to divide
The distance between now-saturated streetlights and cracks in the sidewalk

That slowly fill and overflow like

Violent volcanoes.
                                                                                              

VII Quieter now,
The fallen seeds of saplings,
Have been beaten with
Many hydrogen hammers,
And ground into a dust finer than silk,
And inundated with the former evaporation,
And are still,
Expected to grow tall,
(And remain beautiful)
Like their predecessors.
Knowing all-too-well they will still always play second fiddle,
To the recently sprouted fungus,
That gathers around the knotted-ankles
Of the already successful, older trees.

VIII The resulting humidity
Harvests hordes of insects,
That ravenously bites at the ankles of brave
On-lookers dressed in colorful-raincoats,
As they casually sip on citronella-scented margaritas,
And sit on recycled benches.

IX This is the addition of a hundred million molecules.
Supported by renewed rivers,
Minus the “sometimes” sun
And multiplied
By the silhouettes of seagulls.
Attempting to find the next
Nearest
Dry cloud,
(That had already been discovered by the most-daring-of-doves)
That now have become a wispy web
Of inactivity,
Now devoid of water,
And the blue afternoon spiders that created them.

X At the sight of the dissipating rain,
The tap water that
Hides in faucets
In sunken stainless sinks,
Has suddenly,
And Temporarily,
Become an undrinkable poison,
Until some wise mind,
Realizes that the
Leaves of the trees will eventually shed their raindrops,
In favor,
Of the more
Fashionable
(And Practical)
Orange and brown robes
That autumn will certainly bring.

XI The fingers of the taller trees,
Hyper-extend to their maximum potential,
Attempting to shake hands with the celestial celebrities that
Gave them such a show.

(And such a gift)
But instead,
They only smear their
Fragile elbows,
With grimy stardust,
That
(Due mostly to inflation)
(And spaceships)
Isn’t worth quite as much as other antiquities
That the universe possesses in it’s infinite pockets.

XII This is a revival of prehistory.
A phenomenal renaissance.
Habeas-corpus
And happy birthday
Stirred up into
A diluted utopia.
Whose walls are composed of
The skins of centipedes,
And embellished with caricatures of naked mermaids.

XIII Paramedic ants
Immediately carry the wounded from
The muddy battlefield,
And with no time
(Or ability)
To mourn
Or Pray,
And bury them under
A set of rusty monkey bars,
(Joining the rest of the water under the bridge)

XIV Momentary ceasefires
Are as common
As the commotion caused by
The thunderous reverberations,
Of pennies free-falling into wishing wells,
Miles and
Miles
Away
From this display of decay.

XV Careful inspection reveals
Clovers
Revealing their theoretical fourth leaf,
In plain sight
Of the voyeuristic parked cars,
That for now,
Rest their noisy motors, and
Blinding high beams.

XVI Empty flowerpots,
House the smoldering ashes
Of alternate endings,
That proved too slippery for the silver screen,
But provide an appropriate screenplay,
For the unopened
Pouch of sunflower seeds,
That only will grow in theory.

XVII A cool mist hangs over
Like a resting
Bat.
(Although, there is no way to tell if the mist is right-side-up)
And the soft blue universe,
Is sleepy with countless questions,
That even the
“Sometimes” sun
Can’t remember the answers to.

XVIII And all throughout,
This complicated complex,
Where
This thunderstorm,
Took place,
Echoes and whispers,
Bounce from building
To building
Like a volley ball,
Over a net
Of intertwined power lines.

XIX Settling down
Only so often,
When a nearby window is opened,
And this metaphor has a chance to metabolize.
And sink into the couch,
Like a comfortable friend.
And provide
Concrete documentation,
Of the erroneous ebb,
And fluid flow
Of the now fleeting thunderstorm.
That has already so-seamlessly
Moved on to another
Town.

What was seen

Could never be

Unseen,

It melted the matter in his eyes,

His senses and the

Invisible sky,

Together in a cascade of

Perpetual blue,

Which was layered across the heavens,

Like thick lacquer

By the handy orange airplanes,

And the ghostly kites that hovered,

Just above the tanned hides of the greasy masses

And the

Fortunate

Fortunes,

Buried long ago under

Scores of empty sea-shells.

Laying there,

On a towel that

Barely

Even

Survives

The Dryer.

Sand whipped across his back,

But

Not stinging

Like

Sand should.

Instead,

Alleviating itches

He would be

Having

Ten years in the future,

With a touch like a

Mermaids tail.

And for another moment,

He wasn’t entirely sure

This experience,

Was courtesy of the usually bashful breeze.

Or if,

Perhaps,

His very own

Ions and electrons,

Were being swept up into some galactic stir-fry,

(With plenty of pearls, among other ingredients)

By a passing white  cloud,

Wearing an

Apparently,

Inconspicuous

Chefs hat.

It is truly a cherry on top.

Tied neatly,

Like a Christmas bow,

By motivated factory hands,

And whisked away,

Into a truck filled to the brim with Pumpernickel and Rye.

Driven by the unsteady hands,

Of a madman,

Drunk off of carbohydrates.

The uptight twist-tie.

Is perhaps,

More organic in principle,

Than the loaves of bread themselves,

Who are

Filed neatly into transparent sleeping bags.

Filed away from oxygen and insects alike.

The mighty tie is the first line of defense.

Wound into such a dazzling knot,

That the garden-hose would be jealous of its

Microscopic accomplishment.

And turn their brass heads,

In shame.

Only the most determined

(Or Starving)

Fingers can crack this tangled cipher.

Once,

And

If,

The tie is bested

By

Superior extremities,

It will not sulk.

It will not retaliate and release

Noxious gasses,

Or fire deadly darts

Or deploy

                                              Rolling

                                                                Boulders,

This tie is no poor sport.

Because after every

New loaf of bread,

Is broken,

The tie is thoughtlessly tossed,

Into the suffocating depths,

Of a nearby trashcan.

And immediately,

It begins it’s descent,

Like the confident earthworm,

To the bottom of the bag.

It’s goal was and is,

Not to lay

Idle & buried,

Like the defeated,

Banana peels.

Instead,

To provide light

(And insight)

To this low-density Polyethylene world,

With the help of a

Growing pile,

Of  extremely extinguished matches,

That have managed to settle like sediment.

And shine like a monument.

At the bottom of this

Very

Crowded

Tunnel.

Deliberately demonstrating to the drops

Of calcified ice-cream,

And frayed Chinese finger-traps,

That there is more to this

This fantastic,

Elastic wasteland.

Than a simple  life of refuse.

The four

Coiled faces,

Have always smiled

Four warm smiles.

It’s porcelain exterior shines well in the latitude of the kitchen light.

(More so when frequently buffed)

Providing synthetic warmth,

To the legs

Of the cockroaches

That

                                             Scurry

                                                                                  Across

Without sound,

On hungry,

Lonely nights.

After every meal,

The knobs,

The bells & whistles,

Are wound to to the “off” position.

Leaving so many

Degrees of varying

Degrees

To the imagination.

The buzzing belly,

Slowly powering down now,

For good this time.

Across the un-swept sea,

On another counter-top,

Light-years away,

A far-away microwave

Waves farewell to it’s ancient ancestor,

This prehistoric,

Preheated cave,

 That has seen so many

Majestic birds

And beasts

Deliciously baked

(Or Broiled)

 Right into the hungry

Salivating mouth of extinction.

Upon professional excavation,

Of the oven,

By hands dressed in

Decorative mitts,

Uncover ancient drawings,

Sprawled across it”s walls,

By the geysers of

Cascading casseroles,

Of Thanksgivings past.

So many

“Just desserts”

And

“Last suppers”

Now in it’s enamel rear-view.

It’s whole life,

Seared in steam,

Eroded into the spongy cabinets

That hang

Like

Cheap

Stalactites,

Above the four,

Laughing faces.

The four burning faces.

Whose destiny it was to only and

Ever,

Glow bright orange,

Like four Burning planets,

And then fade to black,

Will leave more stories,

Than charred crumbs,

There is no

Surrounding desert,

No rolling, dusty dunes,

Accompanying this particular oasis.

Just 21

3 story

Concrete tents,

A devestated basketball court,

Laid to waste by both earthquakes

And

Footsteps.

And a lazy fitness center that tags along, as well.

But the beating heart

Of this

Complex,

Complex,

Is the community pool.

A community jewel.

A shallow sapphire.

Cut amongst a patch of trees.

(Most likely by sweaty gods, tired of yardwork.)

Tumultuous turmoil and

Apparent conflict lingers all around,

Swelling and stinking in the hot sun, like

A recently deceased something.

But none of it is relevant.

                           Once it reaches these reverent gates.

Guarded by erect umbrellas and

Supported by the slouching chairs.

This rarely swept terra-cotta patio,

(That has never, ever burned even a single foot)

Who lounge in the spotlight of the sun,

Disregarding doctors recommendations to apply slimy spf’s,

And instead chase sleep,

While snoozing on a chaise lounge.

Their pink bellies covered only by a magazine from yesterday.

(Their closed eyes obviously covered by eyelids.)

Even while awake,

Some of them observe nothing.

The Spanish moss that

Dangerously dangles

From tree-limbs overhead

Serve as casual weather vanes,

Indicating the arrival and departure of the busy thunderstorms.

An occasional,

And very capable  fire-ant,

Patrols the perimeter.

Making  sure that any

Discarded pizza crusts,

(Left-over from a party featuring scores of beautiful  balloons and bright plastic cups)

Stay out of sight.

Music from

Mysterious stereos is always welcome,

But they will always compete with the bees

And birds

(And fail)

For top billing.

Besides the fallen leaves, that float like tiny catamarans,

And the children that need wings to fly in this water,

This pool

Is

  Much

Much

more than  just a pool. 

It is a landmark,

Not  illustrated on any map.

Or documented in any history book.

(Although it should be)

It is right where it needs to be.