A simple soap dish-

Procuring a bar of soap,

That withers at the same pace as an autumn leaf,

A theater seat,

(an autumn leaf)

in the thick of it,

A secluded seat,

(In an autumn house)

Overlooking a desolate landscape and a desolate audience;

This  ivory balcony,

Cradling  an ivory emperor,

Embracing an ivory civilization.

Overlooking grout that desperately needs to be cleaned and empty shampoo bottles,

Overlooking strawberry fields and unhappy denizens,

That look more like chemicals  when the lights are on, then they are when

All the lights go off.

Empty gladiators, when the sun goes down.

Empty houses, when the candles burn out.

When the curtain is pulled away…

                                          When the contrails slowly fade away…

This white coliseum,

White not like the heavens

White not like the heavens.

This kingdom is revealed,

Having housed so many decorative soaps over so many filthy years;

Silent soaps and black & white soaps,

Translucent greens and blues soaps indigo’s and violets shine right through the frosted glass,

Technicolor soaps,

More beautiful than any salt lamp or crystal skull;

Lathered onto chapped elbows;

Every color is present but the rainbow itself.

                                    & the elbows themselves are absent, too.

& the audience themselves are absent too,

Thank god for the TelePrompter.

& the echoes

& the echoes

In this lone white  stall;

In this lone white stall;

This lone white horse, with its lone white carriage  who will always ride alone, off into the white of the clouds.

The floor of this sanctuary,

Having been scorched by dragons, and conquered by

Invasive species after invasive species…

Crawling with impunity  and abbreviations;

Left  only with paradigms  and cavernous chasms;

Tiled like a checkerboard,   only missing the black spots

                                              (As well as the players themselves)

So that there might never be any kings.

Or any moons,

                                                                                    Or metaphors.

Or jumping of any kind.

Elaborate frescoes made up of hand-prints and  beading water that runs slowly down the walls after a certain mist begins to evaporate.

Unintentional artistry that lacks artisans,                                                          of any kind.

After the faucets are instead turned counterclockwise,

So that they can both look at one-other, and fall in love with one-other.

But never hold one-another,

&

To fall asleep in separate beds.

All that is within these walls,

What is within these walls,

Protected by that frosted glass door, that could possibly fall off its rusted hinges at any moment.

And no guards.

Never any guards.

Aside from the soap, and in the rarest of seasons, a bottle of conditioner,

Conditioned to withstand next-to-nothing.

Only a select few  forces exist here.

Save for the occasional  daddy long legs, that is  all too careful not to get it feet wet.

Holding it’s expensive new boots over its head with one hand,

While carrying its young in another,

and its luggage in another,

Tiptoeing  through the deluge, while sidestepping the wreckage that is slowly circling the drain.

No bars either.

No snakes either.

                                                                                          Only sunken ships.

& shrieking hydras.

This ghostly prison,

This ghostly ocean,

Complete with the peeling wallpaper,

 That successfully imitates sand-dunes, peeled back with

Each

Gust

Of

Wind

This palatial landscape,

(Minus the area rug)

Offers no official windows so that wayward birds may perch,

& sing…

& sing…

Songs of freedom and silver  river bends,

 Songs of silver  rolling hills and  white picket fences,

                      Songs 

Of bayonets and treasure chests.

Of bayonets and treasure chests.

 

These are songs unsung.

These songs about bayonets and treasure chests.

These songs about bayonets and treasure chests.

Songs that can only be found inside a treasure chest.

The ghostly inmate isn’t  afforded a jaunty tune,

Or camaraderie of any kind.

It can only communicate  with sign language from across the vacant room;

The soft defenseless  slab of marble.

This slowly disintegrating bar of soap.

Like a carefully sliced loaf of bread;

Trembling before it makes its way into the oven, quietly accepting what  should define the mortality of a loaf of bread.

 Assuming its fate was to be sculpted and nothing more.

-Sweating Michelangelo now more than ever.

At one point, unequivocally whole,  and  solely alone with only

Brave plants and other invertebrates, to converse with.

   Tucked into a messy drawer of assorted toiletries,

Not quite as sharp as the drawer full of cutlery,

And not quite as bitter a drawer full of spices.

 Before the chisel  inevitably  arrives,

Before a dragon breathes such fire that the entire village is destroyed.

Before a hand reaches out and squeezes too hard.

& the train arrives at the a station a moment too late,

This final  bar of white soap procures itself,

Like a dove, searching for any sign of land.

& An olive branch.

& an olive.

Sunbathing without any sun.

                                                                                But with a plethora of towels.

Over time, through showers,

Both hot & cold,

Though shadows,

Under umbrellas;

All that is left, when all is said and done and molded,

Fixated and torn apart with talons,

Is residue left  under fingernails,

       Relegating time to be told on sundials,

                                                                     While nesting birds sing underneath it all,

not yet ready to fly.

 

Dust collects politely in  monogrammed champagne flutes , and  on top of pictures that haven’t moved  since they last sat in mansions.

While some of the pictures,

That were purposely

Hung askew on crooked walls so that the walls  themselves  might one day  be straight.

These crooked pictures complete with compelling images etched in watercolor.

Scenes reminiscent of the pioneer days,

Complete with wagon wheels leaned up against trees that bear no leaves, and

no fruit.

no fruit.

In the middle of overgrown   cornfields,

That carefully hide coiled snakes, coon-skin hats,

&

Cabins off in the distance with billows of smoke ten miles long…

However their is surprisingly,

                           In starch  stark contrast;

no corn.

no corn.

Some occupants of this room,  pass by/through untouched,

                                     unnoticed,

  by brushstroke, cursory glance, glasses of water, or otherwise…

Like careful ghosts, tiptoeing around the campfire.

A nightstand  complete with a lamp that is never lit sits next to a window that is never open.

Next to the lamp leans a  picture in a gaudy green frame,

Circular in shape, and in theme and in origin.

And when the sun shines just right, through that filthy window,

It appears as though the suns very shadow has been cast onto the floor,

Unlike any crown of thorns,

A lot more like spilled milk, or an oil spill.

The dusty nightstand has scars of its own,

Scales of it’s own.

Rings that at the time  were thought to be temporary,

But after coats of armor and furniture polish failed to conquer the rings,

They are now left as a reminder, a lesson, a souvenir

To use a coaster.

Rings that came to be from sweaty glasses,

Some of them more full of solutions then others.

Or  the rings  could  have fallen from the waists of Saturn, & Neptune,

Like a discarded belt.

Which would inevitably  explain some of  the moons in the galaxy.

Left to sweat in the sun when the  room lived a more exposed life.

When proprietors  would set up shop on daybeds and read sonnets aloud, like optimistic bards, in the sunlight,

in the sunlight.

The withered belt,

Planetary or not,

Is  usually left next to the laundry basket after a long day at the office.

Next a case of potpourri

Or

Next to an unloaded hunting rifle.

As a gentle breeze blows outside through the tops of trees. 

These rings wont necessarily tell the age of the  room.

They  will not  take the temperature, either.

Mercury is absent here in every way, shape or form.

A museum room,

A man on the moon,

This  room which accumulates all the dust and virtually  no traffic.

No thoroughfare and no economic stimulation,

A bed where no one rests,

A rocking chair that never rocks,

And curtains that occasionally rustle,

Giving the impression of occupation,  or humanity.

Tiaras and scarves of worn in winters past exist here only in dreams,

Thick coats, pockets heavy with forgotten change, hang  quietly in closets.

Because the piggy-banks cant be trusted

Exiled by grammar, and  changing seasons.

The reality is more contingent on the smell of purple  iodine and mountains of  mothballs,

and  suitcases with absolutely nothing in them.

Much like the captains quarters on a sailing ship;

                                                   Or the set of a movie;

Filled to the brim with rubies so common,

&

Extra chairs, and other miscellaneous furniture

  Wrapped carefully  in sheets like in the tomb of some ancient Egyptian Pharaoh.

Some of the collectibles are  placed higher on mantles, where the air is much thinner,

And questions can be avoided,

Renegade pocket watches swing like the tails of content cats,

Old trophies that come to life and hit home runs at night,

And  ceramic figurines that only ever sit on a bench, and never, ever move.

Mostly sand, is what the backyard should refrain from.

However with the unrelenting sun, combined with neglect,

Sung in unison,

Sung in refrain.

Here lies a wasteland;

Choked constantly by dying  weeds, all the life here lives below the frost-line.

Up on top, living in air that appears to be melting.

This air is melting.

Or perhaps  this is another mirage altogether;

But where has the ice cream gone?

Fertile soil is miles away, separated by chain-link fences and barking dogs.

Brave grass from those surrounding  yards occasionally will stick courageous fingers through the fence, like a curious child,

In an attempt to inject life into this suburban desert;

In an attempt to  fully understand exasperation.

But like a caged, hungry animal on the other side, the yard consisting of mostly sand  will bite  anything that reaches through.

And like the  sudden snap of  of a middle finger and thumb ,

Like a crack of lightning,

Like milk being poured over cereal…

The grass is severed like an intrusive serpent, and left to wilt in the heat.

and carried away by Perseus.

Hot air balloons and passenger jets fly overhead,

Witnessing the carnage, but still focusing on the pictures they playfully draw in the sky.

Their  own versions of  what horizons may look like.

 Occasional oases will  sometimes appear,

Some of which will be more  permanent then others.

Some will have the same stripes as the other zebras…

Some will fade away like ghosts into the pages of books…

Sprouting up after a heavy rain, or  next to a leaky pipe before it can be repaired,

With a roll of tape,   whose functions have no limits.

Or a pipe wrench, whose functions are  limited to  mostly pipes.

 

&

They all  will  smile as they eat egg-rolls,

As a family.

  As they dance around the dinner table, later that evening.

Long before the cake has been cut,

Long after the candles have been blown out,

Long after Olympus Mons had begun to  crumble.

Even if these meager flowers are  the only  offspring of the seasonal weeds,

Set to expire like the eggs a certain timer is aptly named after-

It will still bring visitors,

Visitors with  plastic squares taped to their visiting chests.

Visitors arriving   their visiting hands stuffed into their visiting pockets.

Having brought  with them various entrees,,

All of which will already be cold due to the long drive.

All of which will already  be cold due to the long drive.

 

 

 

 

Buried beneath years of plaid, taller than most piles of ordinary leaves,

As well as a spirited amount of dust,

Bordering on the  cosmic…

Bordering on the rhetoric…

                Tucked into a dresser

|Standing|

|Four|

|Stories|

|Tall.|

Housing everything from socks to shoelaces and pocket watches

To batteries that had long ago run out of everything.

Charging virtually nothing to these tactile tenants.

All in all-

Pretty much a shipwreck

Pretty much a shipwreck

Minus only some of the necessary antiquities…

 The shirt was always there,  inadvertently buried next to  crumbling statues and  marble columns,

A steady tenant;

Even if it hadn’t been worn in a millennia or two.

The shirt even without someone wearing it was                         still able bodied.

Fit for so much  more than some old dancing skeleton…

Even if the moths had already come and gone.

                                                                    Even if the months had already come and gone.

                Like most stories;

            This one was still able bodied,

Sea legs and all.

This shirt started out neat;

Pressed and organized with other shirts cut from similar cloths.

Arranged in a similar fashion to that of the department store from which it came.

The shirt stood in good favor with the earth and all the other planets and stars,

                                                                                … and their inhabitants as well.

The shirt stood in good favor while traveling

Through epic  deluges with Gilgamesh and

Laying in barren fields under the guise of crop-circles, listening  intently to locusts who are all but tuned into their own frequency.

But like most knots;

Like most plagues;

Like most legends;

Like most cords on most telephones;

The shirt somehow became a tangled mess, sleeves crossed, (fingers, too)  and the edges frayed.

Suffocating under leagues of denim and scores of corduroy.

 A snake consuming its own tail.

                                The tireless, non-venomous

Patchwork serpent  freed one of its tangled sleeves and

Like a rising undead, or an exasperated explorer lost among thickets and mangroves

(With nothing left but a dull machete and a faded map)

The exasperated shirt reached out for something.

Searching for any semblance of light or life;

And instead only briefly  grabbing  a hold of the coattails of a fleeting mirage,

Before even those slipped away to some other desert.

To some other silver screen.

It would be quite some time before the shirt would be officially  worn again.

The seasons and  their various  fashions came together and rolled away slowly, like a snowball,

Not downhill at first, but  gradually gaining speed.

As it picks up splintering   hockey sticks and broken drums and wax paper from

All the local meat markets.

And ice skating rinks.

All of which had been

Left for dead by members of the team and the band.

And the butchers, too.

(They did remember to take their lettermen jackets and cleavers with them after the big game, however)

The shirt would never see a banquet hall or a ballroom.

                Or a battlefield or even an art gallery.

But these were  never the intended outcomes for this particular shirt.

To be fired from a cannon like some shrapnel.

To dance the night away in a room full of windows.

This shirt was destined to be worn while walking towards the sunset, on some sandy beach

…Three pens tucked neatly into the front pocket.

For which  to scribble on what exactly?

Driftwood?

The wings of crashed model airplanes?

This shirt was meant to be worn walking barefoot on asphalt,

While a stiff summer breeze blows, forcing the already  melting ice cream to drip back onto the shirt.

And provide texture,

(And context)

Before the final destination has even been reached.

Some noticeable  holes chewed by hungry insects

(Created either during storage or exploration.)

Do not effect the integrity of this shirt, instead they become windows,

Or eyes.

Or oil spills.

Some loose threads hang down like decaying vines or a graying beard,

They are more akin to rope ladders though,

Lowered down by the  first responders sent to  pick up any refugees that may have otherwise been left behind.

The eventual stains left by stick deodorant and lack thereof

Provide  all the  necessary stripes,

All the necessary streaks,

All the necessary combustion.

These attributes give the shirt an uncanny ability to look

For a moment,

Like so many things.

 Like a jungle cat.

Or a billboard, in the process of being painted.

Or a crashed model airplane, with missing wings.

 

 

 

Tucked among the palmettos and the tombstones,

Gathered in an incomplete  circle,

A group of  incumbent bricks,

Provide a moment of  clarity for some of the  more boisterous neighbors.

 Probably laid as a road or a foundation  for some species or some structure at sometime.

The grooves  on which the needle will drag to produce sound.

Or a crisp border to  frame the sloppy palmettos in front this house,

(An ugly painting presented in a gilded frame)

Presented to so many kings,

But this feat,

This painting,

Was interrupted by

Other more important tasks,

Or more beautiful paintings, as it were.

Portraits of mundane tasks

Such as tending to the delicate house plants that are prone to wilting,

On some particularly hot afternoons,

Or

Encouraging grass to actually grow over sand, while watching the  paint dry on the canvas.

The bricks  rearranged themselves during this renaissance , aided  of course by

Neglect and time,

But really set into motion by

Tectonic plates being cleaned and put away next to the

Tectonic bowls,

&

Tectonic cups

By platonic hands that handle the finest silverware

&

Some other factors  that are not quite of this world.

(But are of  the clouds, and the monarchy, respectively)

&

  Slowly, and finally the bricks formed a circle.

(Or at least their idea of one)

And it was good.

Surely  this attempt at architecture would inspire  falling meteorites to be more than displaced space junk!

Surely this was an event sure to usurp “Casablanca” in terms of intrinsic value!

Certainly this would rewrite textbooks and inspire generations!

And yet this tiny monument,

A lesser Stonehenge;

An  homage to all things trivial;

Partially hidden here under a shady grove of palmettos,

On a seldom used street,

In a sparsely populated community,

Noticed by nightingales and not-much-more,

Initially proved  to be nothing more than

A hyperbole,

A false  arena,

In some eyes.

(But not  in the eyes of the nightingales)

In some eyes,

They were not capable of hosting any event,

Big or small, formal or casual.

No place for  folded linens or laminated menus,

(Or even laminated steaks)

It’s vacancy attributed mostly to it’s un-impressive construction

But also due to the fact that

There would be virtually no seating, or anything to watch even.

No  place to even pitch a tent.

Or plug in a generator.

It was a few bricks under some bushes,

In some eyes,

Still  somehow similar  to Circus-Maximus though,

Minus the gladiators,

& the noise,

&

The lions.

& being

Far, far away from Rome…

Maybe it was the way the bricks looked after a thunderstorm,

Barely wet but still so comfortable,

Slightly covered in a thin layer of moss,

Slightly covered by a thin green blanket,

Sleeping  now in such soft soil.

It might  appear to be quicksand, according to critics.

There might be monsters under the bed, according to critics.

But still the bricks

Hoist themselves up onto pedestals and raise their arms in the air;

Exuding triumph and backed by the  sounds of blaring trumpets.

Because  these bricks were not always, only here,  tucked under those palmettos.

(These may not have even been the original bricks)

They have  occurred in ancient dreams alongside the occult, forever ago.

&

They will  continue to appear in future dreams, disguised in chrome.

These are  bricks of perspective.

Sometimes they will be just  bricks,

And sometimes they will be just  roads,

& sometimes

The dreams were not of bricks but  of chariots instead…

 

Its place in the kitchen

Is not one of dispute.

It has the appeal of Olympus and the altitude of Everest;

It is the right place, in terms of logistics.

Housing both  pastries and satires alike,

(And diamonds)

Behind a glass dome,

Allowing for premium reflection;

Allowing for premium confection;

Although there is neither smoke or mirrors involved.

Buttercream icing slowly stagnates but still it shines under the guise of

This crystal ball;

That does so much more then foresee fortunes.

-Also the lighting is better here than any room in which a seance occurs.

From the cake stand, the alter on which the desserts  are placed with

Endearment and reverence, and tightly closed hands.

Sloppily made  danishes and pies ooze fruit,

&

Bleed  blue, red and rhubarb  blood as if the baker had  gone mad and attempted murder,

Unsuccessfully of course.

However these glossy imperfections were done with precision,

With the cake stand, and it’s needs firmly  in mind.

A crest of leaves carved into the crystal base,

A coat of arms;

By the steady handed manufacturer, who obviously had spent years and years playing in the fields of sugarcane,

Tasting it, then figuring out a way to display this taste.

Or by an android born into an uncanny valley, populated with only pistons and discarded hard-drives.

Whoever the creator,

The destination of the cake stand was to be:

On counter-tops made of granite,

And counter-tops made of glass,

And whose purpose was:

To laminate these recipes within the third dimension.

To entice families and demons, during both night and day.

 These embellishments give the base a tranquil and solitary feel,

Like an early morning body of water, misty with haze;

Like a monastery  tucked deep within the forest, on top of a mountain.

Only accessible by a staircase carved into the side of that mountain,

By both  monks and by dynamite;

Ringing bells that every tree can hear every evening

Fallen or not.

Buried or not.

It is not air tight,  although it may appear to be.

It would be a poor helmet for any space explorer, or scuba diver.

It could potentially be hospitable for hungry insects,

But only until the sweet desserts ran dry,

Because

No actual rivers  run through here.

In this way it is a Venus fly trap, accessible and enticing  to wandering insects at first;

Drawn in by exotic nectar;

Drawn in by stoic dancers;

Followed by a sudden lack of oxygen and the closing of                   so many eyes.

So many eyes…

It is  perhaps best suited to dress up concoctions curated in the kitchen,

Able to display them better than any silver platter could ever dream of,

Better than any marble  bust.

It is a temporary  agreement until

Vanilla  knives come and cut pieces

Of the vanilla cake and place them

On vanilla plates.

                                                       By vanilla hands

&

This is where the cake stand becomes

A handshake;

A namesake;

yet still unable to display milkshakes.

Left to simmer

In a  cauldron,

 With no witches in sight,

And no particular recipe in mind;

The standing  water,

Whether a proud  product of

The weather,

Or a sprinkler left to its own devices in

The heat of the moment, 

The heat of the summer.

Has  been collected, and could for all intensive purposes

Be  used as a birdbath,

If not for the chunks of charred matter that rises

To the

Top,

Like a drink with something unknown  at the bottom,

An eyelash perhaps,

An encore perhaps; 

Like fish-food for everything but fish,

Like ice bergs with no susceptible  ships to prey on.

And just like  the heat from the fire before it;

Floating,  rising…

And eventually  sinking;

Some  of the bigger players in this game ,

The  same ones who always hold flushes

&

Queens

In one hand, and a magnifying glass in the other,

Are convinced  convection has not yet thrown in the towel.

&

Are still  holding out hope

That somehow the extinguished  heat will return.

The distant sun stares from far away,

From across the crowded room

From across a crowded sky

-As the doorman focuses on which coats to hang

And in which order to hang them.

 Looking intently on that lonely  black basin;

Constructed of galvanized alloys, and weak screws.

It is still a

Close relative  to the ceramic  chimenea that   exists on a diet of the finest timber,

&

Is sold alongside hand-spun vases and power-tools at the finest of hardware stores,

That need not stay open past eight… 

This bowl of yesterdays fire  has all the makings of an eventual   black hole,

&

All the markings of a bird of prey;

(At least as far as the sun is concerned)

This is the hornets nest

From which a trebuchet  will  certainly  spring fourth,

&

Bombard  the sun and all it’s sporadic spots,

Blinding even  the phoenix, 

In a barrage of retaliatory strikes and stings,

To a soundtrack of beating drums, striking and stinging,

&

Then resonating.

Suddenly encompassing all of the hidden kingdoms and townships that

Proudly wave  fiery flags of orange, while conversely  wearing sunglasses.

Muscular clouds

Hired to protect the vulnerable sun,

-Although they were never able to formerly unionize

Filled  close to bursting with

Anger and rain,

They usually  protect the skies,

(On some days)

Without incident.

(On some days)

They now instead

Take shelter behind the cold moon and all it’s craters and many, many phases.

&

Give way to a massive blue shroud,

Pulled tight at all four corners,

Like a sheet fresh from the depths of the dryer,

Exposing a texture that approaches that of velvet,

Or cashmere…

Or cashmere…

The absconded clouds

Frightened perhaps,

By the resurgence of fire born on earth,

Born unto earth;

Or perhaps

By the  few pieces of volcanic rock

(Used for decoration, or irrigation, decades ago)

That lay scattered about the yard,

With miscellaneous  other  fossils and cinder-blocks,

& Bones…

 & Biology…

That were long ago buried, inadvertently or not;

That have  gradually come to the surface, like some predictable fish.

Like more predicated arguments.

When that last ember burned out,

And left  behind  a layer  of  fleecy soot,

That could so easily be mistaken for

A blanket of fresh snow,

Or a sheet of blank paper,

Staring back at the author or authors and asking about the importance of scars

&

Correct citations,

Among other things.

&

If not for their peculiar smells

&

Differing levels of acidity,

What is left over  in the fire-pit,

&

What is left over from high tide,

Or dumped from an aquarium,

After  all the fish have been relocated  to a much brighter  habitat

Are  like eggs in a carton, or cereal in a box,

Or two identical  strips of bacon, sizzling for no one but themselves.

An irregular equal sign burning its image in a frying pan.

Still breakfast,  none-the-less.

Breakfast under the microscope,

Al fresco,

Et al,

Of course.

As the seasons begin to turn

Like a dancer pirouetting headlong into infinity,

And the melted  snow-flakes become  blades of

Green, green grass;

Hurricanes have come and gone;

Like hurried house-guests,

Like buzzing bees;

Here only for both a literal

&

Figurative cup of coffee,

& then they are gone,

With the tip of a cap,

& scattered showers…

Off to visit another coastline.

Off to read some other novel,

And weep about the ending…

The bare banana tree and its now frayed leaves,

Stand and grow

At an acute angle,

As if they were growing off some  jagged cliff,

Dangling fruit over the the hungry mouth of the fuming foaming ocean,

Defying Poseidon, son of Cronus,

And sending him into a seismic tantrum that shakes even the mightiest of volcanoes.

This banana tree  grows leans

Near a post where neighboring  fences  meet and commiserate  about the

Emerging problem of the  sprawling  vines,

&

The taxonomy of whether there really is a market for bird food,

Since squirrels

&

The occasional sparrow

Are the only ones who ever seem to benefit from it.

Probably because they have such a great view of

The elaborate birdhouses hanging from the eaves,

Equipped with water wheels and uninhabited  lighthouses,

That are, besides being a beacon of light and hope for the most fortunate of travelers;

(As well as being a conversation piece, when company does indeed arrive)

 Are constantly being

Showered with tiny seeds that never

Had the chance to actually  become oaks;

Or radiant sunflowers,

Instead they exist only as offerings,

With the likes of

Gold

Frankincense and myrrh.

Every day the banana tree will inch closer to the ground,

…Storms or not

Reducing  it’s angle

Each and

Every day.

Becoming more of a sundial now then a fruit tree.

The fruit  finding its way closer to earth as the roots beneath  begin to snap slowly

Like ropes suspending a hero in an action movie;

Over lava, or bubbling acid.

&

Eventually they will snap,

Like most things;

 The landing is everything.

 The  landing is everything…

And now it lays flat,

Having fought the good fight,

A life,

Not quite  that of any storied beanstalk ,

But fraught with tension,

&

Fruit flies, none-the-less

Which should have been a sign of things to come.

Like a fallen soldier,

It’s yellow guns,

Never drawn.

It’s yellow faces

Watching faraway  fireworks now, from it’s  shady corner of the yard,

Where it was the only tree that ever stood,

Accepting the fact that the  medic is tending to other casualties;

Thinking all sorts of things,

But most importantly;

Wondering what is like to really be part of a forest.

The faded wooden sign,

Marked like a bulls-eye with holes

But not from arrows

…From careful archers

But from staples and nails long ago removed.

The signs current  purpose was one of dispute,

&  one of respite

Advertisments for  lost dogs and

Birthday parties hung proudly in contrast  here,

Praises sung loudly here;

Some current, and some more  fabled then others.

What is left of the sign now a memorial of rusty  staples and creeping moss,

(Also in contrast with one another)

As well as  the peeling paint, that falls much slower than the changing leaves.

This decrepit state,

Brought on by  insurmountable tidal waves of humidity.

&

The occasional hammer strike,

Or tremor from a summertime cannonball.

The   fragile wooden legs on which it stands,

Occasionally will shake,

Because of these factors,

& also

Because the sign has no taproot,

(Or branches)

Any sense of stability left long ago,

(Sustainability never having existed)

Driven away by

Gusts of wind  that howl like wolves;

                                                                                                   &

Gusts of wind that also feast like wolves;

And still, the mostly vacant sign will remain.

Although the occasional termite will of course still take up residence here,

Never offering as much as a cent,

&

Still somehow being rewarded with shelter.

Whats left of the structure;

Still warm, still breathing.

Here under a few live oaks.

This sign whose only  aspirations  were to be a billboard someday

Complete with the  fluttering letters at lunchtime

&

A ladder that no one ever climbed.

It is instead a  forgotten landmark,

A crumbling  sandcastle in the face of approaching tides

Or

A farm that at one time yielded an abundance of crops,

Busy with the sounds of plows and the

Smells of leather.

Now arid and buzzing with hungry crows.

Who can only build nests of rock.

Not quite a graveyard…

Not quite a graveyard…

Life here,

In a grassy median,

Dreaming of life  at sea on the Mediterranean,

Has become a visible retirement,

Instead of going out gracefully like a melting candle,

Dancing until there was nothing left but wispy smoke,

Dancing until there was nothing left to dance.

Subsequently leaving behind smell that can never be exploited.

The sign is but a movie trapped  within a reel,

A task once held dear,

Ever since ever was clear.

&

Long since

The ant piles had been swept away,

And the last coat of lacquer had been applied,

Since infancy even,

The sign had great dreams,

Of heaven and earth and everything in between.

Including but not limited to;

Gleaming advertisements showcasing Amish furniture

&

Bathing suits,

Followed by a gradual descent into  a place for  sign up sheets  for little league

&

  Meeting times for

Various committees who intend to pass bills  of certain  bipartisan legislation;

Instead,

Covered up by construction paper signs detailing pot-luck                     luncheons,

                                                                                                                                                Eons ago…

&

Business cards that advertise

Companies that specialize in digging                                   artesian wells.

 Beginning from the friendly confines of the living room,

But  having never had the privilege of resting comfortably

With it’s feet up on a plush Turkish ottoman,

For even a second.

Since it sprung fourth from the egg,

Accompanied by the same soundtrack

That begins most horror movies,

A life consisting  with   of wandering,

&

Pandering

&

Scavenging.

Feats such as

Having once  traversed the fibrous area rug,

Without eyesight,

&

Only antennae to guide it,

(While the radio searched hopelessly for a signal)

Like a fleeing gazelle,

From any number of carnivores,

 Barely  being able to see above the tall grass of the savanna.

Except there was no chase, in this instance.

Only the insect and an area rug whose pile,

Has (Had?) a tendency to imitate tall grass.

The adventurous insect  could

Easily scale counter-tops

…Mountaintops

…Mountaintops

To retrieve meager scraps.

Minor offerings,

&

Complete suffering

Were among the grand prizes.

Consolation was of no importance.

 Still,  enjoying the paltry portions,  watching rockets shoot past the moon,

Landing in  the nosebleeds,

Among the tombstones.

 Beholding this  entire extravaganza all from a marble ledge,

Was a ride like no other.

Finally in the front row now,

Seated like royalty this once.

Like a season ticket holder this once. 

A seat of commerce.

This unintentional balcony,

Cold to the touch

But not quite a frozen lake yet, though.

Just above the sink where the faucet

Has nothing else better to do but hang its head.

And subsequently,

And eventually,

And blindly,

Over the course of time,

While still enduring many   hardships,

Like not having the capabilities to push any of the buttons on the remote

When the television was mistakenly  left on

For hours

Four hours

At a volume exceeding skyscrapers.

Or when careless brooms swept across the floor,

Kicking up particles and participles alike,

When, one day among the chaos,

&

The grammar

The aging insect traveled outside through

An  unseen  crack in the foundation,

(That years later could lead to depreciation)

For a  simple breath of fresh air,

But in this not-so-simple situation

The tiny insect,

 Unexpectedly grew weak,

Perhaps

From exposure to blinding   sun-light

Or the  swirling uncertainty

In this unfamiliar environment,

Not being able to tell the difference between gargoyles

And perched Birds…

Or perhaps it was that time

A time that supersedes cliches

While dancing in circles,

This is the time that has found it’s niche, and plans to stay.

Found it’s calling, like the blaring of trumpets.

Dust from the wings of sleeping moths drops down,

Covering the battlefield .

Blessing this space like no other.

Falling like artillery but

Not making a sound.

A soft breeze blows the clovers nearby,

All enduring with three leaves, as clovers should.

Drawing lines in the sand,

Forcing curious crop-circles to scratch their chins.

& the aforementioned insect is still alone,

(The only audience watching through a crack in the door)

(The insects  only hope watching through a crack in the door)

With the closing of  that door,

(So not to let the cold air, or inside voices out)

And the turning the of the deadbolt,

The slow turning of the screw,

The lions were upon him,

Roaring and slashing,

Told best when the camera  finally panned away,

Leaving only shadows to convey the carnage.

No  eulogies told from

Temporary podiums,

To temporal congratulations,

Congregations

Or dedications inscribed in

Marble-laden mausoleums

To remember the now sleeping insect,

Voyeurism was the only prevailing truth that day,

Absolution was heavier than cannonballs that day.