He means as much

To this particular

Patch of earth,

As the surrounding weeds do.

He graciously

Waters the

Thirsty soil,

In a feeble attempt,

To stimulate some of the fallen flowers.

Only to see the

Greedy weeds,

Suck it all up, both in

And through their veins.

(Not even saving seconds for the starving centipedes.)

He pleads with the relentless invaders,

To share at least a portion of

 Of the foreign fertilizers,

That he tirelessly works to afford,

With his family of

Crumbling chrysanthemums,

And the now

Exhausted eggplants.

And to live in harmony with

The

Green,

Green,

Grass.

But the

Despicable weeds

Once again,

Turn their backs.

And the man,

(The desperate gardener, in this case)

Is left with a decisive decision.

Accept the weeds as an occasional aquaintence.

Or betray the weeds,

(Who both suspect, and expect nothing)

By drawing his shiny spade,

Like a Holy Roman Senator,

Missing only a tunic that is only missing ancient  bloodstains,

And stab them in the back.

 As the tired soil,

Abundant with craters and drought,

Absorbs the newly introduced carbon,

(By the virtue of murder)

Not as a sacrifice,

But as a gift,

And with some last,

Immortal words,

He remembers them.

et tu, zizania?

From simple showers

Squeeze steady streams.

Bursting out of

A stainless – steel resovoir,

Marching in single file surges,

Encouraged and

Propelled by

A certain pressure,

That always remains unseen.

(And is scarcely understood)

Trapped behind at least,

Two layers of 

Chlorinated vinyl,

That rivals even the silkiest of spider-webs,

Whistles or hums can scarcely be heard,

The same forgotten jaunty tunes,

That permanently echo from tile to tile,

Combined

With dripping and  the sound of

Swirling drains,

Work to create an empty soundtrack.

(Imitating the soapy footsteps of these washed-up ghosts)

But never really replacing them.

 And over in the 

 Condensated corner,

Is an unfortunate bathroom plant.

And near it,

Is where the also-unfortunate

Spiders,

Live their tiny existance.

Not feeding,

Or farming but instead,

(While having no other obvious contributions to submit)

Spin untimely,

Wayward piles of dust,

Into tiny oragami dolls

And file them

Away in cracks that resemble cabinets,

Created by

The constant erosion of faulty caulking.

This is no place for this beacon of beauty.

This resemblance of life stuck in

This misty,

 Only-lit-by-lightbulbs jungle.

This lonely arboreal diety,

Hearing the constant slam

Of sliding glass

And mistaking them for

Jublious claps of thunder past,

That are now never followed by rain, but instead

Bubbles and the smell of bleach.

The flickering of artificial

Light,

Looks like lightning,

(For a split second)

But generates no substantial form of

Outstanding electricity.

It will forever only ever feel the 

Stinging touch of reclaimed rainwater.

(That is universally known to be undrinkable.)

This confused caladium,

Infused with expiring carbon will

Forever be confused about its

Obviously mistaken placement.

Because expecting acceptable maitanence,

In a purgatorial place such as this,

Is unequivocally unacceptable.

Because more often than not,

The best botany,

Is undoubtedly bred,

On the best of balconies.

It is important

For

The domesticated plants,

Stuffed into plastic pots

By plastic people,

To be exposed to

Moonlight

As well as

Sunlight.

Not only for the sake of contrast,

But so that,

That particular plant

Will never forget the environment

Where it’s once wild roots,

Formerly  took refuge.

A new desk is always a level playing feild.

Bought then,

Tediously assembled from out of a package,

Complete with the smell of

Mothballs and mouth watering

Step-by-step directions.

Or perhaps,

Purchased whole-sale

From a recently Widowed mistress.

It is where war is waged.

Pitting the

Punctual clock’s,

Against the

Precise calendars.

 It is a solar system.

(With texture)

It is the next greatest monument,

In any room.

(Second only to the marvelous rug.)

But far above the

Shady curtains.

The desk can support the weight

Of any

Pen.

Or the mass of any

Brave being,

Daring enough

To use it as

A step-ladder,

(To just barely reach a crooked picture.)

But best of all,

Any desk,

New

Or

Old.

Is  frequently a sight for a usually unseen spectacle.

Where the savage teeth of the written word,

Collaborate with the most stubborn of sciences,

While still managing to

Coexist

Peacefully,

With a multitude of mathematic coefficients.

Rivers of spilled white out

Can easily be mistaken for ancient cave-paintings,

(Or white blood, to the un-trained eye)

But the piles of leftover eraser shavings,

(Carefully swept by impatient hands)

Are quickly determined to be

In-accurate artifacts.

Of an otherwise very authentic,

Exaggeration.

Fluffy vessels

Bob boundlessly

Atop

The Warm chocolate waves.

That are only dictated,

By the occasional

Prescence, of the

Crescent spoon that

Hangs just below the horizon,

Of this Styrofoam ocean.

Pudgy fingers

Like greedy

Pirates,

Pluck the fuffy barrels of sugar

From the frothy troughs of

The seasonal soup.

And fire them like cannonballs,

Into a greedy mouth,

Where they bounce 

Like

Balls

Off a trampoline tounge,

And

Ricochet  from tooth to tooth

Like a runaway pinball.

(Obliterating the former high score)

The marshmallows are not afraid.

Because the teeth, although obviously sharp,

Resemble the marshmallows, in both appearance,

And in splendid,

Candid spirit.

(When in reality, this coudnt be further from the tooth.)

It’s length

Can only be determined

By circumstantial circumference,

Divided by a full moon,

And then

Multiplied by

How

Many

Skips

A particular rock will take,

On its trip

Across the pond.

Heaved by the same

Hands that

Sweat at the sight of

Wet cement.

Stable sidewalks,

Entertain the tiniest of traffic.

 Busy red ants mingling in straight lines with songbirds  soaring overhead,

And centipedes filling in the gaps.

Forming very formidable processions,

That shield

The traveling salesman,

Or

A salesman traveling,

From the judgemental eyes of the

Turtles nestled in the shallow

Regions of a considerably

Deep

Lake.

(That could very easily be mistaken as stepping stones.)

In a patch of grass

Near a long ago,

Widowed,

Willow,

 Is where the wonderful weeds grow.

Where the old band once stood.

Where any ordinary

Tramp armed with only

A fishing pole

(And an adaquete wrist)

Can easily part an entire orchestra of

Former dinosaurs,

Without shouting or even

Sharpening his wicked  guillotine.

And this is  especially where

That same tramp,

Or any

Ordinary hero,

Will  always get a

Constant,

Standing ovation

From the  always thankful,

Supporting cast of surrounding trees.

The field of straw is a quiet field.

One grasshoppers buzz

Silently

And the noisy wind howls like a restless cowboy.

Over the rustling grass.

These are the only sounds to be heard.

(Anywhere)

Residing elsewhere,

In these very

Plain,

Plains,

A white rabbit stretches out in the

Afternoon sun.

It has enchanting red eyes,

And  they are wide open,

(While only appearing semi-squinted)

And they are more than capable of finding

Every infinite flaw

With a very finite world.

The wind picks up.

(But not significantly)

However it does stir,

The peaceful ears of the

Peaceful rabbit.

They perk up,

Probing like curious satellite dishes,

Furiously searching for signals.

…And like a grizzly bear

The white rabbit

The white magician.

Rears up,

And

Surveys the empty field,

Left

To

Right.

And the back again.

And without warning,

The white rabbit

Darts off

Into a vacant hole

In the still very vacant field.

Then the skies open up.

And

The

Rain

Comes

Down.

Although they are

Currently enrolled

In the same field of study.

Lavalamps

And

Aquariums

Have a great deal

To learn about one another.

(And both beam at the prospect)

Of potentially being mentored

By

Mermaids.

In the humble quest, For the most adaquete ambiance,

The starving refrigerator hums perfectly

In key with the flashy television.

The radioactive microwave buzzes,

So loudly,

That the lazy wallpaper

 Is wilted away into simple wallflowers.

And somewhere else,

The air-condition

Kicks on,with a subtle,

Sub-zero

Sleight-of-hand

And a very sleepy

Houseguest,

Slips off

His

Or

Her

Socks.

When

And If,

One treacherous,

Yet,

Beautiful weekday evening,

Every firefly is

All-at-once

 Plucked from the sky,

(Like  a feather from a fowl )

On some cruel and lonely

Farm,

Far,

Far,

Away,

By an always animated farmer,

Dressed quite casually,

In ancient overalls.

The bumblebees will hang their head’s,

And sheath their stingers.

( However, only for a moment.)

Because after a  long day,

Of sweet talking the hungry hibiscuses,

They’ll have to find the strength,

And establish enough energy,

To pollenate the stars,

Too.