Dressed in white,

Drowning in white,

It is unclear whether

This is a custom costume,

That the armchair wears so loosely,

Worn for the sake of festivities,

Or a veil to ward off some of the more

Diabolical furniture.

Namely, the ottomans that circle the living room like

A hungry pack of wolves.

A hungry pack of foot-rests.

Never remaining in one spot for long.

This white robe,

Decorated with ketchup stains and

Ancient crumbs,

Crumbs so stale

Limestone would instead regress to talc.

The chairs vulnerable layer of suede 

Protected  only by this thin layer of cotton.

The choirs vulnerable voices layered in soprano

Projected only by a thin layer of static electricity.

This synthetic  swath

Born from the most  majestic of wombs,

&

Eventually

Spun from golden looms.

The finished product

Shines like  a silver cloud as the morning sun peeks around the curtailing curtains.

Dust does not gather here,

Dust  instead settles here.

Dust becomes diamonds here.

Underneath infinite fibers,

Underneath the creaking frame,

Where hidden sinew steadily unwinds,

Recoiling into messy piles compression,

Reclining almost  to the point  of  hibernation.

Sitting atop a hill,

(Leaning rather)

A former tree,

A former flora,

Fallen all by itself.

Roots no longer intact.

Roots never quite exact.

Separated and picked to  bits of nothing by

By-standing birds,

Who had just come from a long day of

Sitting in cautious rows,

Upon  subtle wires,

Like a dozen magicians.

Casting a dozen spells.

Upon the heads of so many,

So that these purveyors of  so many different  surveys,

That all  seem to do different  tired jobs,

At various, tired volumes.

Whose only  reprieve is achieved when temporarily resting

Under the shadow of the  petrified overpass.

But only for a moment,

Because

These monoliths are often at an impasse, themselves.

They spend so much time soliciting  flyers under these

 Radioactive skies,

And hiding from various vultures who haunt those same

Radioactive skies.

Now with this blessing,

From the  stale roots of this disembarked   tree,

They mayjust  have the slightest chance at

Withstanding the  everyday onslaught of fungus

And the ferocity of a flat tire,

And the  calculating verbosity of telekinetic telemarketers.

While still being able to exist in their favored  state of perpetual fragility.

All this expiration,

All this mediation.

From a fallen tree,

For a fallen tree.

That is already

And easily will

Be so much more,

Than a tree.

Than firewood.

The story of the uprooting,

The uprising,

And subsequent displacement,

Of this adult splinter,

Disjointed from the earth

With no help from the jagged jaws

  Of the serrated saws,

That swiftly travel through forests,

Hungry for timber,

Vehemently separating limb from life.

Leaving only leaves in its wake,

But still providing four sturdy legs,

For a future chair.

And after deforestation,

They bounce about the textured dreams of the woodsmen that wield them,

Like recently forged swords,

Like lost  musical notes,

  Reluctantly narrating kaleidoscope cartoons.

This is the origin of firewood.

This is the birth of a glow.

This fallen tree,

Once a  literal thorn in the side of a mountain,

Now a drop in a bucket.

(A bucket that stands behind the crowd, awaiting instruction)

The tree

Is tossed onto some expensive blanket of  charcoal,

With some uncomfortable  newspaper clippings,

Who are undeserving of this same fate,

&

Surrounded by glossy expensive stones,

Stacked high enough

&

Painted brightly  enough

To sustain  general fireside aesthetics.

And quiet the fireside critics.

With immolation now moments away,

This  previous tree has now become an offering,

Like the deceased village witch.

And like the martyred witch,

The eventual firewood will live on forever

Dancing well into the night,

Finally departing

In splendid ribbons of smoke,

Gradually graduating to

Inevitable cloud status,

Forgoing both posture

&

Pasture

For a life of thunderstorms.

For a causal life.

For a casual life.

While candidly watching absolutely  everything,

Almost everything.

Almost sleepwalking through the sky,

In  a trance.

A trance so requisite,

A trance so exquisite,

It borders on obsolete.

Baskets made of

Melted plastic

And welded wire,

In patterns of checkered lattice,

No pieces stacked…two high.

Forming holes large just enough for the cart to breathe,

Forming gills for the shopping cart.

Allowing the cart to focus on aerodynamics.

Allowing the cart to breath underwater.

But small enough so  that the  purchased groceries can’t escape.

Only crumbled shopping lists and

Ancient receipts are capable of this.

For some children this is a sailboat.

Coming in multitudes of color and  arrays of  different

Attitudes,

(Varying  only in the seminal category of magnitude )

Functionality makes up one third of their existence,

Maintenance and companionship make up  the other two pieces,

To this pie chart that exists in a place that frequently sells pies.

(Among other infinite pastries)

These are quintessential qualities to

Their central condition.

Trapped in prisons built entirely of

Burning brick and

Molten mortar,

Cooled only by the breath of the frozen food aisle.

They are herded like cattle at the end of each day,

A time honored practice,

In a place governed by time-clocks.

The carts will try and put their foot down,

To stay out of the  rusty corrals,

Located in the middle of the sweaty parking lots,

Trying to desperately skid to a stop.

As they are are pushed

Closer and closer towards extinction.

But some of the wheels barely touch the ground, 

Some of these same unfortunate wheels,

Who long ago lost both their bearings

And their sense of direction.

 Spin infinitely

Spin untimely.

Faster  though than any  propeller is capable of  revolving.

Faster though than any chambered bullet.

Faster than the  inevitable trajectory of umbrellas snatched up,

During a tornado.

And then left to trickle back down to earth like

Dandelion seeds.

Gathered in groups around

The warmth of the red stop signs,

Trying to avoid

The employees who wear  their  good sneakers in the rain.

Staying closest to the side with the garden section,

Clinging to the side that has the most life.

 

 

 

 

 

Locked up and

It’s

Key

Buried  beneath a

Pile of  discarded rubbish.

Hung out to dry for the world to see.

Stranded on a metal wire,

A metal wire lacking any surplus electricity.

Like some wrought-iron

Laundry,

Suspended

& Swaying.

Just beyond the reach of the sun,

Just feet away from

The

Howling mouth of the sea.

Breathing in,

And out,

Taking  the carcasses   of sun-dried starfish

Back with them.

Leaving behind the scraps of sun-dried tomatoes.

At one point such a guarded figure.

At one point avant-garde.

This  ordinarily defensive mechanism.

Now perceived as  nothing but an over sized  earring,

Hanging from the exhausted ear lobe.

Of forgotten towers.

Whose  ancient splinters mimic

The primitive nature of a cactus,

Protecting it’s precious water.

 Or an empty briefcase.

Swinging from the busy arm of

Towering telephone polls,

Who permanently persist here,

With  turned up collars  of blue,

Mimicking the nature of the sky.

Filling in the gaps between the quicksand and

Empty parking lots,

Near  former sites of historical significance,

Waiting

In

Single

File

L I N E S.

Some of these giants

Wear fedoras,

While simultaneously

Flipping quarters,

In accordance

&

Within earshot of

Black and white odds.

Black and white bylaws.

(While no one is looking)

While ostensibly   waiting for different results.

Some  of these giants,

Appearing in the most fashionable  of haircuts,

Obviously not featured in any particular magazine,

Assuredly not  attending any particular gala

Still come adorned  with curls of cable,

Weaved into intricate knots,

Resembling beehives,

Honeycombs resembling catacombs

&

Silver gaskets,

So many silver gaskets.

That shine like rhinestones.

That shine like eyes.

Atop their heads,

That are usually susceptible to exploding in a lightning storms,

Like any good business man should be, anyways.

Rolling over stationary rocks,

In this glaucous pond,

With a raucous audience

 Watching with a reserved enthusiasm,

Fingers crossed,

Waiting for a leg to be broken.

During this dance.

Next to an off-white hospital,

But never free from injury.

This slight waterfall,

Never rushing at a obscene pace,

Like many runaway rivers sometimes do,

Instead only trickling along,

Providing silence for the herrings that stalk the microscopic

Tadpoles,

With strikes similar to lightning.

(In the same motion and breath as a shovel to moist soil)

That upon extermination,

Send tidal waves throughout this fragile ecosystem.

Sending seismic waves that rattle sunken

Limbs and leaves,

Distributed from the top-heavy trees hanging just above this body of water,

(Too afraid to dive all the way in)

Limber lumber engaging in decomposition

Beneath the creases of  the careful ripples,

Beneath the waves,

Shedding skins,

Changing colors.

Beneath the waves.

Occasionally a tin  can riverboat

It’s minuscule slot machines long ago cashed out by lucky ghosts,

That left behind only empty glasses,

Ice cubes still slowly melting.

Next to the dead machines.

So someone would be able to have a second drink.

Or

Some other virtuous debris,

Some elaborate yachts,

Chartering these open waters,

These open green waters.

Green with both envy and plight.

Find their way into the deepest depths of

Detention

Of this  polluted retention pond.

Initially,

The invisible captains of these

Valiant vessels,

Stand atop the crows-nest,

Sword by their side,

Eye to eye with

So many enemies,

As well as the

Many varieties of mockingbirds,

That the sky has to offer.

But upon finding their way to a nearby bank,

Buoyant complacency silently boards the ships,

In the form of drowsy sea-sickness

Formulates a barbarous mutiny,

Spreading from one snoring mouth to another,

And capsizes the captain.

Who weeps over his not-yet-buried treasure

Then checks the first mate.

And the empty vessels become slaves to the howling wind,

At the very beck and call of the breeze.

Now slowly crawling towards the event horizon,

Empty except for seashells,

Empty except for excerpts,

Anticipating its diluted conclusion,

Ready for it’s layover among  so many other cascading droplets,

All carrying briefcases,

All set to attend the same seminar.

That is the slight waterfall,

That is the slight displacement,

From one ocean to another.

One planet to another.

One pane of glass,

To another.

Unheralded saucers of service.

Accompanied  by

Blue teacups

And blue feelings.

Cobalt stained reincarnations of Icarus,

Who at one point flew too close to the sun,

Like icarus

While being carried across the kitchen,

By trembling hands,

And crashed,

Onto a floor stained with sticky wine.

Over a glossy ocean finished with linoleum.

Rearranged  into thousands of

Tiny fragments,

Tiny bones,

Forming the principals  of an

Anatomical mosaic.

A muscular masterpiece,

Orchestrated   by cardiovascular conductors,

Who long ago handed their baton to the next runner,

Always a  slower runner.

In a much  slower race,

Whose eyes were long ago,

Spurned

&

Afterwards burned.

But not by the  rays of  the  ultra-violent television,

But by making the grave mistake of

Standing over the oven,

Intently watching  water boil,

Instead of adhering to the

Universal allure of

 Wet paint.

&

The unique chemistry involved in

It’s drying process.

Although  this task is undertaken on the

Canvas that is  the four walls of a different room

An adjacent room.

A room with carpet,

…And a closet.

Whose use is

To be determined.

And whose vacancy is

To be determined.

This room absorbs the paint,

And it’s simultaneous smell,

Drawn and quartered.

So not to compete with the  wafting fragrances of the forgotten recipes,

Of the kitchen,

That are tucked so  carefully into the precise folds of the wallpaper,

That are just now slowly beginning to yellow and  peel.

Like the bananas on top the fridge,

Like the phone-book tucked beneath the sink.

 However there is one

 Criminally overlooked aspect of the previously stated  emulsion,

And it’s labyrinthine involvement in

The  drying process.

And it’s effect on the condemned room.

It will assuredly reduce the dimensions of the aforementioned

Adjacent room.

Ultimately,

&

Silently,

Inch by inch,

Coat after coat.

Like a hovering vulture,

Whose plumage isn’t definite.

Proposing an equation

Equal to infinity,

As an answer to

The rooms hollow,

Humble problems.

Problems,

That the kitchen

And it’s blue plates,

Will never share.

Nearly  everyday,

(That the sun shines)

Every hot day,

Looking up,

&

Not being able to see the top.

(And where the sun doesn’t shine)

A tiny brown lizard,

The reptilian replica of a gatekeeper.

A sentient sentinel.

Exposing emaciated ribs with every breath,

Every subtle breath,

(Mimicking the wind in terms of amplification)

Waits for something.

It waits for

Fallen moths

&

Pizza deliveries

Eyes rolling around in their sockets

As he keeps constant watch,

On a nearby

Rarely used,

Electrical socket.

That provides no power.

As mailman busy feet

&

Seasons pass,

The lizard will occasionally take shelter

In a neighboring crevice,

In a neighboring cave,

(Since he has no tent to pitch)

(Still  no complaints to file,though)

Bohemian in nature,

Simple in perspective,

A bike-rack off in the distance,

Only accessible

Through thickets of grass

Piled with fallen kites,

Shredded by

Sharp winds

&

Sharper scissors

That distant destination.

Looks to him,

Like a  rusty power plant,

That shines brighter than

The  peaceful moon,

&

The streetlights combined.

Simple syntax

&

Other forms of communicable communications,

Are not understood here,

Under these stairs.

Clumps of discarded

Bubblegum,

Begin to form the base of mountains,

At the base of these stairs,

Impervious to  both erosion,

&

Digestion,

 Parked cars and

Passerby’s.

He will have no epics written on his behalf,

Never will he drink from the immortal waters of the river Styx,

No journeys with Jason & his  Argonauts,

(Or even  other worldly astronauts)

He will however

Be immortalized in italics

Captivated in captions.

Beloved by biology.

Behind the sterile glass,

And through the sterile doors,

Sterile elevator music plays,

(Although it is almost entirely muted.)

Accompanied by an educational film,

Accompanied by the piercing sound of drilling.

Primitive magazines top the tables,

Documenting the  important on-goings of

Style

&

 The elasticity of  life,

While casually mentioning  a piece about

Dwindling farmland.

Providing only a temporary resting place for

Any dust

Brave enough to lend its cursory services in

Such a pragmatic setting.

Through the door,

Near where the customary aquarium usually would stand.

Is the teeth of the whole office.

The sharp,

Golden teeth.

Green vinyl chairs

That are tastelessly garnished in

Transparent sheets,

That aid in sanitation,

As well as decoration.

Appear  to lazily  recline,

As if they have nothing better to do,

However this is their preemptive position.

To be patient.

For the patients.

Tools laid precisely out,

In a particular order,

Waiting to infiltrate,

Waiting to fill the vulnerable mouth full of some foreign  numbing agent,

A chemical that in both nature

&

Composition,

Is stickier than a melted candy-cane.

But by no means taste the same.

Waiting for that soluble solution to take its hypnotic hold,

So that

The other forces involved can push the tongue around

Like an unfair schoolyard fight.

Waiting to scrape the teeth

And shine lights so bright,

…Light so bright and blue,

That the enamel has to retreat,

Leaving behind his many  crowns  in the process.

The exposed royalties now

Reduced to bleeding gums,

Clinched fists,

&

Muffled hail-marys.

 A lingering taste of vinegar,

Is left behind in this wake,

(Along with scores of slain bacteria)

With a hint of minty fluoride.

 …Accompanied by the piercing sound of drilling.

That still rings…

That all but drowns out traffic on the way home.

But does nothing to prevent,

The cruel stoplights from

Doing their job.

 

Placed among the various other

Bins

& Baskets

In a section of the supermarket,

That doesn’t affiliate in any way

With the bread aisle,

(Except when it comes to fruit, extracted.)

Off in the corner,

Disguised among the regal

 Colors

Of the Oranges and

Limes,

Hide the  elusive Tangerines.

And outside a  strong wind blows,

& Wind-chimes are for sale,

Easily advertising themselves,

By allowing  nobody to speak for them,

And creating sounds like church bells.

In a parking lot emptier than a graveyard.

Caravans of customers

Come from

Municipal mansions and trailers alike,

Adorned with feather boas,

…While stepping over escaped boas.

To

Pick and choose

The best of the very best,

At this bizarre bazaar.

Usually ignoring the corn

&

Inspecting the  apples,

With x-ray eyes,

Down to their very core.

Busy feet scuffle and kick,

Bumping the shelves,

Advocating minor avalanches,

(Minus the ash)

Causing some insects to take cover,

Or be frozen in time…

Without the snow…

Without the snow…

The tangerines hold firm though.

Under the radar,

Like sonar.

Stacked in a way as if mimicking a pyramid,

While serving the very same purpose.

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead,

Providing a secure feeling of incubation,

Keeping the fruit warm.

Keeping the people warm.

&

Illuminating the  important numbers on the receipts,

At the end of each transaction.

The  mysterious tangerines go for 1.38 per pound.

But can never be found.

Their designated area is frequently empty.

Their coffin is frequently unoccupied.

But a dollar thirty eight,

Is still

A bargain considering

The nearly intangible/Tangerine,

Is equal in price to

What the color of the sun,

Would bring at auction.

At some point

Every day,

The spot is empty,

Curious versions of vacancy leaning more

 And more towards optimism.

As the sun-dial silently strikes,

And professes from it’s bellows,

A resounding nothing.

Meaning something.

It isn’t ever empty or full because of its relative proximity to the

Equator

Or

Some nearby front door.

 Because it is equal distance from both.

But after that initial time

Of being empty,

Whilst running on fumes,

Whilst watching dragons fly,

Its two faded white boundaries,

May be

Painted

Over

&

Over

Again.

Never withstanding the elements for very long.

Inside these

Perpendicular penitentiaries

(That have no bars)

These barriers that corral  sleeping cars like

Animals under a tranquil spell.

Placed by a wizard in a white coat.

 Many invisible tethered horses,

Inevitably will whine as their metallic  hooves

Crush bottle-caps,

&

Stomp out fires

&

Swat at the swarms of poisonous flies,

 That surround the

Tiny unnamed lakes of oil.

That will know evaporation long before they know exploration,

And that have the uncanny  ability,

To change color like

A brilliant reptile,

Or a science-class prism.

There are other peculiar happenings,

Inside those two white lines.

After no certain amount of traffic

Casually comes

&

Goes,

&

As the afternoon noisily  buzzes…towards infinity.

And the cicadas gaily sing along…towards infinity.

Some tentative residents

Who stare from closed windows,

(Locked of course)

Imagine eggs,

Scrambled or otherwise,

Burning on that hot  ground,

Providing a dirty,

But necessary breakfast.

(Minus the pancakes)

As they selfishly keep their own eggs to themselves,

Tucked away in pastel crates,

Pastel cribs that comfortably seat two dozen.

Two dozen individual  conundrums.

Seated in that pink auditorium,

Made mostly of Styrofoam.

Mostly providing puns and the occasional

Yolk.

And then the spacial parking spot is  partially on it’s own again,

As a few casual coins subsequently join the asphalt dinner party.

Circular traces of Copper and Nickel are reluctantly abundant here,

In an otherwise periodic sea of ultra-violence

&

 Motor-oil

&

Turmoil.

Powerless power-lines that tower overhead like nesting condors,

Welcome the tiny currency.

As the new guests to the space.

As the new ghosts to the space.

They are  both the rent and the

Tenants of this space,

And the penance of the parking lot.

(This new world)

Accompanied only by  an army  of ants.

And ministries of microscopic gravel

(Who are ordained in both diplomacy, and geology)

That  fervently protects  this fortune,

This good fortune,

From beast and

Foot alike.

Until a  passing grasshopper becomes complacent.

This fortunate coinage.

Gaining convection as they bake at high noon,

Gaining momentum as they bake at high noon.

Providing more protein than any

Imaginary egg,

Scrambled or otherwise.