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)

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.

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