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.

Sandwiched between

Two trees,

Above fertile soil, and

Below a crescent moon.

Temporarily catching leaves

&

Other debris that falls with  the

Changing

Autumn winds.

Illuminated by a variety of lights,

Some occurring naturally and some

Enduring artificially.

(Depending on the time of year)

It has the potential

&

Kinetic energy to match the hanging laundry,

Some socks,

Some shirts and

Some white sheets that can flutter so violently,

They will emerge as flame;

Bearing a titular resemblance to the smoldering phoenix.

And may be mistaken for suburban forest fires

Or

Sun-spots among the vast cul-de-sacs,

That are communities

Among already communities.

While the laundry in question is

Left to dry on the line,

Left to try for a time. 

Dancing erratically in between gusts,

They can appear as one other if only a glance was to be spared.

And it  is a wonder why there are  not more mirrors outdoors

                                                                                                                                       mirrors outdoors

 Both  live in constant suspension,

Like swinging bridges,

With the constant fear they may one day take

Flight unexpectedly,

Or plunge unexpectedly

As some birds in infancy, surely have thought.

Coming unhinged,

Feathers and all,

And

Soaring up into the stratosphere.

Breaking through  tangled canopies of

Violins & vines;

Looking down,

And initially

Knowing only

Nausea and

Anxiety

But soon

Discovering sportsmanship and ferocity ,

-As if they were neighbors

Chaperoned by symphonies that pilot chariots,

That descend unto

The cities below.

Snaking through alleyways and steamy grates,

Watching people participate as ants

&

Ants

Incapacitate the people.

Sometimes the hammock will endure wind gusts like

Intermittent tornadoes,

And is twisted in on itself,

Its ropes on both sides twisting with so much friction…

So much fiction…

And when those same savage winds move on,

&

Dissipate like melting ice cream,

(Ice cream cones that look like tornadoes, at least in form, minus the color and taste of strawberries.)

The hammock will unwind  in a fashion similar to  its usual occupants,

But at speeds that create gusts and

Craters of their own,

Forming moons and

Plots of land that

Will never have a mayor

Or a pristine golf course,

Or a gold mine.

All of which would require a sprinkle of humanity,

On top of something that already looks like a croissant,

A condition that the shady spot under the hammock can not sustain

(Because there is no bakery)

Because this  would also require

 Some excessively large scissors

In order to cut the  ribbon

Which would be either

Yellow or red

In color.

&

Immeasurable in length.

Buried beneath

Furrows of insulation,

&

Heaps of disintegrated photographs,

Are

Cards for many occasions.

Snakes resembling many moccasins. 

Cards  decorated with colorful balloons

&

Cakes

Even playing cards,

Faded  by time,

Not by the sand in the hourglass.

These cards,

Originally intended to be remembered, having escaped their boxed fate,

&

Landed face down.

Cards  depicting empty forests and singing swallows,

Lending their ears

&

Eyes

To to a simpler time.

The faint  smell of tree sap

&

The stickiness of maple syrup, flowing like landslides over pancake islands,

Never enough napkins to contain the motivated molasses.

Only the forks can save them now.

All of these  individual premonitions,

Of  the few cards that landed face down,

Admonished all at once

When they were covered with a storage bin full to bursting.

A bin filled with even more things,

Even some other  cards,

Honoring other occasions

But mostly

Crafts

&

Bills,

Mostly.

The  essential summation of this and so many other attics.

Which is in its base form is flat, mostly unexplored land

Consisting mostly of termites

&

Crashed spaceships,

& pictures of windmills.

& pictures of windmills.

Little plots of land above the rigid cinder-blocks

&

Visceral,

Vertical beams that breathe inside the  sanctity of the walls.

Ribs encasing the beating heart of the standing house.

 Colonies of silverfish

&

Ghosts

Both

Survive and maintain

This  bustling canopy.

These empty farms.

 Scarcely lit terra firma rich with textiles and

Rare smiles,

Bursting at the seams

With stuff that might be from inside a couch cushion

Or

Cotton candy.

Cornucopias of wrapping paper and

Phone-books.

Wade like schools of feeding fish,

Just below the surface,

Bouncing like ping-pong balls between ceiling joints,

Out of reach until at least next season.

 Time practically stands still up in the attic,

Until

 A certain stairway is unveiled,

Flooding the ample crevice with  more

Creaking footsteps

&

The ringing of doorbells,

An uproar from the legions of fans below,

Men and women,

Lifeboats and hard candy,

Waving handkerchiefs and breaking bottles in adoration,

 At this time,

Only this time,

Celebrating civility and stability in  unison.

And weeping when the door closes,

And weeping when the pictures stop.

Matted stuffed animals posturing to become relevant again,

Toys with missing pieces exists only as foliage at this juncture,

The silverfish,

&

A  select few other species,

(Ghosts included)

Find themselves

With nothing left to do but

Read  many ancient  brochures;

With glasses  slid down to the tips of their noses,

Like inquiring grandparents, struggling to see in the dark.

While wondering what the  unopened harmonicas that are curiously  buried

Deeper than any of these other treasures,

In cardboard boxes that suspiciously  resemble coffins

Could possibly sound like.

This  precarious collective consists of neither

Flora nor fauna,

(With the exception of the silverfish)

They only chew up what is left,

Of what is left.

Obliterating all traces of sugar

&

Starch.

Recessing confessions and an incalculable number of invitations,

Filing them into oblivion .

All the contents of the attic,

All the love letters,

&

Fireworks packed away for nights teeming with expectation;

Those

Nights never saw those lights,

Those

Nights never read those words,

But still they relished in the explosive manner of how  the people celebrated.

While

Dreaming of dancing weather-vanes,

&

Falling leaves

That pirouette   just out of  arms reach,

Spiraling just beyond  hindsight,

In plain sight.

Slot machines

&

Game  cartridges slated for personal use,

Once bright with

Color and sound,

Are chipped and covered with a thick coat of dust,

As opposed as to a

Coat of arms.

The machines fighting battles they never imagined,

[Saloons doors all closed now, as the town looks on with squinted eyes]

Staring at  a card from the

“Thinking of you” section of the grocery store;

Equipped with faded roses on the front

Equipped with faded eyes, ready to bury so many opponents after this one.

Even from a distance.

[Pistols still holstered]

Thorns readily exposed.

And now a whistling can be heard…

A motionless colony.

Without ants.

Without ants.

Growing with gnomes.

And not with crops

And not with crops.

Of stalwart collectibles,

Extravagant castaways.

An old engine block,

A disconnected exit sign,

And counterfeit Easter island heads.

&

So many

Moth

Golf-balls,

Among  so many other intricacies.

Rescued from other piles of refuse,

Or  from faraway islands, in march.

Or from fairways,

Blown away by trade-winds…

&

Brought here to carry on their tradition.

Any tradition, for that matter.

But instead,

Bleached by the sun,

(A tradition of radiation)

Chipped by falling acorns.

Chipped by falling stars.

The noble gnomes,

Pushing ceramic wheelbarrows,

To ceramic marketplaces

Where insect  vendors sell dust by the dozen

…By the pound

Other artifacts,

Mobile or otherwise

Moving almost nowhere,

Collect more fallen acorns.

Collect more fallen stars.

And storing them right next to nowhere.

That sits directly  next to the old shed.

Where cats and rust are one in the same.

Where  firewood is stacked.

Where the coral snakes sleep.

Other gnomes, who have taken to the tops of stumps,

Some holding marbles,

While others beckon with pitchforks,

Attempting to cut down the butterflies as they swarm nearby flowers,

Thinking of building bridges,

&

Raising flags

&

Other autocratic possibilities.

Will, at the very least end up fractured, like the

Old, washed up dishes, that closely  resembles a graveyard

In appearance,

But not in standard.

These offerings,

Purchased by some old aristocrat,

(Who had  a penchant for practicality as well as glass)

From a store whose neon signs long ago flickered out,

Just to match the rest of the dusky plaza,

Which once smelled of pizza.

To match the supermarket whose shelves look now more like monuments then they ever did,

Even in   their heyday, when the air  still smelled of wax

&

Museums

But all the people still  moved,

The people even danced.

In busy parking lots,

Around unlocked cars.

 Where a pet store once stood,

From where the beasts sprang fourth! 

These dishes, who

Originally  were more clear then swimming pools

Originally more clear then surrounding clairvoyants.

 Who have quietly grown organically right along side the green moss,

(Even though it is much colder on that north side)

This population rings bells so faint,

Vexed by sounds they don’t yet understand.

A careful listener may mistake them for tiny wind-chimes,

(If there were any careful listeners left)

They have all gone to brunch.

They have all fallen below sea-level.

As night falls the gnomes do not close their eyes,

The dishes

& Easter island heads

&

Engine-blocks,

&

The amino acids

&

Dominoes as well as

Exit signs,

Remain quiet.

Not because they are aware that Rome has fallen,

Not because some volcanoes remain dormant.

But because stationary eyes do not close.

They do not want to impress any emperors.

That task is for the bird- baths.

Where blue-birds;

Where geisha’s;

Splash in slow motion.

Washing away vinegar

As well as cold-medicine,

From their perplexed feathers.

Turning then into doves,

&

Then

Burning like the phoenix.

 

They spin their heads along with the noble owls, and

Watch passing tires spin faster.

Disregarding the diamonds

&

Other loose change they so easily pulverize.

While

Hoping that  the resident  jack in the box,

Stays broken

&

Silent

Like the garden itself.

(The only difference being a tinge of fertility.)

This is land that is not only filled,

With rubbish

&

With relics

This is land that is  full.

Full with fresh water

Full with light that moves between branches and

Full with gregarious air that breaths

On

It’s

Own.

&

Cacti who don’t need deserts to grow.

Guests who don’t need dessert to know when dinner is over.

This is a garden of gnomes,

&

Other things

Peaceful things,

Caught in stasis,

Instead of  spiderwebs.

 

 

 

The origins of the aforementioned roof

Told in a single story

From a single story.

This roof, whose once tired and weary shingles are now being peeled away  like

Blood

Red

Oranges,

During

Blood

Red

Afternoons

By

Blood

Red

Roofers

And then tossed down to the grass below,

Missing the open dumpster that exists  only for the purpose of refuse,

By miles and miles…

To mingle with nails and other debris that have also  fallen,

Like foreign entities onto native lands,

Puncturing

&

Then posturing as some sort of important landmark.

Embellishing a sort of summer salad  in this scenario,

Made up of ants that look like raisins,

And earthworms that look like onions,

&

Onions that look like onions.

Some of the other roofs watching,

Whose tops  are the same color of faraway deserts and deep blue oceans,

And even the noble homes,

The learned homes;

Whose tops include chimneys,

(And monocles)

(& tentacles certain times of the year)

Whose shingles

Know all  too well what smoke smells like,

Marvel at the bottles of half empty sports drinks that balance on the very

Edges of

This roof in flux.

-Knowing damn well they will never know what it is like to be recycled

Looking like perched birds on  a line,

Parrots of so many colors,

That have no place here among this cacophony of

Fire & brimstone.

Missing their rain-forests,

Missing their canopies.

Still they stand firm amidst

Heavy footsteps and

The pounding of the nail-gun,

Identifying  more and more  with claps of distant thunder,

Instead of the buzzing of  grasshoppers.

In more prehistoric times then these,

The reoccurring smell

&

Overall theme of  the thick black tar,

Coupled with the screams of velociraptors

&

Sheer magnitude of meteorites,

Usually would be indicative of a certain demise

&

In the best case scenario would lead to

Intact fossilization for future introspection inspection

(The Hall of Fame, in a way)

But these surrounding homes bear the acrid smell

Of the burning bones of dinosaurs

&

Phone-books

&

The screams of birds, evolved.

They embrace all the chaos.

They embrace all the construction.

The massive craters left by devoid  asteroids  were long ago filled with water,

&

 so many  lakes came to be;

Named mostly after ordinary names,

So

Water-skiers out in the deep being pulled by speeding boats

(Built and bound by fiberglass)

 And even the  children  wading in the shallows,

(Also built and bound by fiberglass)

Who will one day walk tightropes…

Who will one day walk tightropes…

Can observe and watch this home  gradually gain a new perspective.

Stand and clap  on the shorelines the home  gains a new and exciting hat.

This roof,

Formerly a smile missing teeth…on picture day.

Is now a roof to be reckoned with…on picture day.

A roof with an audience and a purpose.

Sticks and stones whipped up by the wildest tornadoes

Bounces right off,

Like artillery shells rolling off of armor;

Rain drops fall and immediately roll off  into the new

Stainless steel gutters,

Stainless steel spaceships,

Flowing faster in this vacuum then they ever did in the sky,

& being  so grateful for it,

Only to be expelled from the conduit

In a fashion similar to that of a waterfall  roaring off a cliff,

But there is no lagoon for the water to land here;

Instead it ends up spilling out

Next to the musty garage,

That houses a generator that has been colonized by spiders

&

Old newspapers, that have colonized countless oil spills.

Reaching its final destination ,

&

Then it will pool, and sink into the earth.

Near an old bicycle that never made its way to the curb.

Near the old triceratops that never made its way to the curb, either.

Neither of which ever got the lead in the school play;

Neither of which ever had the chance to walk the tightrope…

These are days without mechanical thought.

These are roads that are dusty

With or without wind.

Or footsteps.

A temporary reprieve from the exhausting thoughts of

Expensive paint-cans,

&

Their infinite shades.

Or pondering where the stray  hubcaps from  speeding cars

End up once they roll away on their own.

During an afternoon excursion.

(Quite possibly having founded   a world of chrome  and broken spokes, either above or below the current macrocosm, complete with a Parliament  and overdue library books. )

Tangled vines and aggressive palmettos

Choke out growing trees that have miraculously  grown up through discarded tires,

&

The  waxy bays that smell of vanilla,

Out of place among

So many living oaks.

That will eventually smell of sawdust.

Floating soda cans are not litter,

But  ships at sea,

Setting sight  on the fountain in the middle.

The pinnacle of this reservoir.

Accompanied by a lone gourd,

That has been carelessly thrown overboard.

All these vessels,

&

Others

Attempting to

Dodge the treacherous turtle shells that

Have laid so many other metaphors to rest.

Off beyond some of the other brush,

Is a strategically placed rope swing.

Held by a knot that is

Tighter than any knot before or after it,

Tighter than anything that will ever be.

Capable of carrying

Calvary and

Carpenter ants alike,

Over a dried up canal,

Past the tops of trees,

To splash into the  milky stars.

It would pay dividends  to acknowledge

Two people.

One sitting on one side of the lake,

On a bench with plenty of gum underneath,

Whose line of sight is obscured by the roaring fountain,

&

Soda cans that have now started to sink.

And on the other side ,

(Separated by equal parts water and space and exasperation)

The other sits,

On a picnic bench,

Eating nothing,

But

Reading something.

Neither of them move,

&

It is better that way.

Because

This story within a story  could only be told better,

By an artists rendering.

Pounding and scraping can be heard off in the distance,

&

Excavation is underway nearby,

Machines that look

&

Sound like dinosaurs

Dig through the bedrock and

The

Bottle-caps

To unearth  ancient pipelines,

Dilapidated conduits that took eons to crystallize.

&

Replace them with more modern couplings in mere seconds,

Resistant to  both rust and to fairy-tales.

To better provide fuel at the expense of fossils that

Continue to mount,

In record numbers.

All this noise

Off so far in the distance,

Still

Reverberates at the park,

All this noise,

Off so far in the distance,

Still relevant at the park.

Compelling bread crumbs originally left for the

Ducks,

Remain still,

Left to tremble  on top  of the soft grass where it was forgotten in the first place ,

Like hesitant popcorn.

The opportunistic cranes,

See this and consider this as a meal.

  To have

Din

&

Dinner in the same day,

(Especially if it is  just stale bread)

Would be  an outrageous bargain,

&

That is to say nothing of  an open box of donuts,

Left to be further baked by this days sun

&

Many others after it.

Left momentarily as a decoration in a park,

That is severely lacking in anything besides recreation,

&

Bathrooms.

There are an adequate number of bathrooms in paradise.

When the body and the blood have graduated;

Beyond the bones and

Blinking eyes.

& Whistling lips.

&

When spirits dance off this planet,

Onto the next;

Forks and knives,

and spatulas

&

Dracula reserve the right to take part.

Taking part in this flight of the condor.

If they do,

They do so in the sanctity of meticulously  labeled  drawers,

Touched by many hands,

(A carpenters to start)

Both

By quick hands,

&

 By the graceful caress of hands fallen limp.

These utensils brought together from so many  different places,

And then assembled in this parsonage;

Attended with an unbridled patronage;

 Occasional knives of sterling  silver used to carve meat from bone

See no qualm rubbing elbows with stainless steel spoons,

Whose primary use is scooping up what’s left of the   chocolate pudding.

Decorated punch bowls born into  worlds of glass,

&

Clouds,

&

Coffins

 Will fit snugly inside the warm embrace of

The whimsical plastic bowls that house

The fruit salad.

The same way the moon fits into a cold sky.

Scores of assorted mugs line the cabinets,

Some chipped ones, moved towards the back after repeated use.

Some are painted with portraits of fish.

Then there are others,

Coffee mugs with  such eccentric  prints that both the wallpaper that peels

On the wall behind

 The stove,

&

Wild chameleons,

Will both  seek

To strike like lightning…

  In order  to change their syntax

&

Their environment entirely.

Skillets and cauldrons take many posts around the busy kitchen.

Bubbling with fat

&

Grease,

&

Spells.

Left to simmer on stove tops.

Left to conjure up conjectures.

Some rest like tired grey elephants, backs and bottoms tired from lifting,

…And remembering.

…And remembering.

And some have made their way to the churches nursery, in a cursory fashion.

&

Now are played like steel drums on the banks of faraway  islands,

Welcoming incoming rowboats.

Welcoming  the waning tides.

All the  different metals resonate with hymns and gravity.

Cast and galvanized  alike, hypnotized

By ticking clocks.

Stainless and fine China,

Punctuated by those same clocks,

Whose alarms have now sounded.

A few of these good dishes,

Wrapped more tightly than most pharaohs

In order to provide for  the next millennia.

…For  at least the next luncheon.

These dishes,

(Even some desserts)

(That one’s that can see their  own breaths)

Are tucked away in the cold,

Where there is light, only when the door opens.

And darkness when it is not.

They were chosen to preserve the myth of leftovers,

By a committee wearing yellow gloves

&

Decorated  aprons;

Filled with crumbs and dystrophy.

Who will utter mostly  kind words, and

Smell of  talcum powder and gameshows.

These reverent  dishes know that they

Can safely rest behind the doors of the refrigerator.

Behind the walls of Jericho.

It’s facade,

Disguised with many magnets,

Introducing the  colorful alphabet to such  unlikely allies,

As take-out menus

&

Handwritten directions to a nearby shopping mall.

Drawing up contingency plans, for the fragile eggs,

&

Formulating an exit strategy,

To protect the  ambivalent potato salad.

The  yellow margarine is left uncovered…

On a white plate.

On a counter top.

Steadily melting…

Steadily aspiring…

For just a little  bit more.

The loaf of bread has fallen asleep.

Stale now.

Separate bottles of oil and vinegar remain upright.

The  thermostat  setting, turned only half way,

If, for nothing else,

To keep the deviled eggs, from freezing over,

In this time of revelation.