Against the backdrop

Of light from

A

Candle.

A cup of pens begins to glow,

And becomes a basket of fruit,

…Still glowing.

A coffee cup,

Filled with pens,

&

Markers,

(While ostensibly lacking in erasers.)

&

Not with coffee,

Not with energy.

Proposes a rhythmic speculation,

To the glittering constellations.

And  to the archaic few who still read the paper on Sundays.

What once was

A cup of pens,

Completely capable of outlining Andromeda in her entirety.

So very proficient in the process

Of illustration

&

Allusion,

That tape-measures recoil like ashamed rattlesnakes.

But  disguised as a basket of fruit,

This manger of pens.

Becomes a cornucopia,

Bursting with both

Primary

Ideas

&

 Flashes of secondary

Color,

That carpool together to observe an intermediate symposium,

While regrettably  forgetting the synopsis of symbolism,

On the bureau,

Back at home.

Whose very composition,

Is almost  exactly identical to most fruits,

Down to their very genomes.

Down to the number of seeds.

Down to their very core.

These temporary pens become so much more.

In the perspective of specters.

Stroke by stroke,

&

Step by step,

(Across some very hot-coals)

They have the ability to reach out to a world,

(Sometimes without the use of  fancy words)

(Or high-definition pictures)

And produce dreams

&

Fountains

&

Armadillos that scurry across busy intersections,

To dig in secret gardens.

And demonstrate to the rest of everything,

That

A basket of unusual  fruit,

A basket of inherent implements,

Has no problem,

Shouldering the load,

Like a hitchhiking tramp,

(Thumb pointed towards the horizon.)

That existence isn’t measured  by

Crescendos

& other various resistances.

Simply being recognized as sweet or sour,

&

So long as they

Can be held,

Can be cradled

And nurtured

Only a certain way,

That only the bosom of the supple curtains can provide,

(While still blocking out the sun)

And held by the exceptional grip of

The write hands.

The same hands.

The same fingers.

The same knives.

That writhe like earthworms,

That aggressively clamor on,

About being  put back into the ground.

Away from the dangerous canopy.

And the hungry canaries.

Just beyond the precious silver screen,

(Not of the cinematic variety)

(Obviously of the window variety)

 The piles of

Frosty moths that fill the galvanized sill,

(The galvanized trenches.)

Who were unfortunately unable to get out of

The way of the transparent guillotine.

And all its crushing weight.

That and their short life-cycles.

Are the consequences of their actions.

The consequence of exploration.

A group of shoes lounge,

Like a sleeping cat,

 Laces blowing in the breeze,

Like whiskers,

Like tentacles,

Like tentacles underwater.

These are not forgotten shoes.

On the contrary!

A pair for every occasion! 

This scene would be enough to make any cobbler smile.

These beautiful creations,

Meant to protect

The vulnerable heels

Of a creature

That so recklessly

Steps on the eggs of vultures.

But then takes them off when

They begin to count sheep,

…While quickly losing count.

…While quickly losing count.

This masterpiece arranged carefully in a compromised pile.

By an acclimated,

Well adjusted jury.

A conscripted stack of soles.

A treasury of souls.

Enlisted and tied tightly.

With ears like a rabbit.

Ready for battle at the slightest provocation.

No wads of wayward gum have made the

Pilgrimage.

They were scraped onto

A concrete curb long before this,

Exiled before this era began.

Before these eons began.

Distanced from the humble socks,

These resilient cleats,

Are not running from any conflict.

(However they still provide the most adequate grip)

If running was indeed necessary.

This journey to the ledge of window,

This voyage to higher ground.

Wasn’t a long one.

They only came from the floor.

They easily came from the floor.

With the intentions of pushing all of their monumental efforts,

(As well as their stories)

Through the microscopic cracks in a pane.

To share with the rest of the silent world.

To absolve them of their faux pas.

To dissolve any preexisting premonitions.

Spinning stories of

Championing athletes,

Raising torches

Grinding their teeth.

And work,

So much work.

Mostly work.

Dreaming of outside again,

Dreaming of morning again.

 And of grass,

So much grass

And sand

But mostly sand.

Amongst the blowing

Trees,

Taller than the stilts

Made from

The exoskeletons

Of said trees.

Sits,

Or in this case,

Floats

A single pink balloon.

It’s prologue is written and

Buried in some

Lost & found container

(A treasure chest would be to easy to find)

At the bottom of

Some hill,

Somewhere else.

Away from the balloon entirely.

To its audience,

In this case,

 Greasy tree-trimmers

And

Barefoot tree climbers alike

Who fight with sticks that

Cut like

Real swords.

It has become

A spectacle.

A trophy.

A fiscal responsibility.

Bobbing from branch to

Branch,

(Like an apple, bobbing in both confusion and water)

Ironically dodging

The unpredictable likes of the

Symbiotic squirrels,

And the pointy tips of the acorns that

They so desperately desire.

From afar,

Throngs of nouns,

Engaging in various verbs,

Pay no attention to the isolated balloon.

And continue to engage in various other sciences.

So many chemists,

So many ceramicists,

Could easily draw up a plan to spare the

Helpless balloon from

A

Noisy

&

Cliche fate.

 And as gradual deflation begins,

And the balloon looks like it is melting

(Like a misplaced scoop of ice cream)

To the few,

Who are now paying attention.

Who are now licking their lips.

And still no eulogy is written.

The  death of the balloon is

Accompanied only by the roaring of chainsaws

And the

Rattling sound of woodpeckers.

That  solemnly believe in uncovering what is not theirs.

The balloons goodbye is the third song sung that day.

A  tertiary soliloquy,

For such a noble gas,

In disguise.

At one point,

It hung in a tall tree,

In a dilapidated corner of

A derelict front-yard.

Hung by a child

Fascinated by aviation,

Or by an unknown hand from the heavens,

Like a cosmic Christmas ornament,

For future spacemen,

Standing proudly, dressed in titanium suits.

(While still as vulnerable as medieval knights)

Legend,

Or

Scripture has it.

On a tea-spoon of good faith,

That the birdcage was initially forgotten.

Placed on the back-burner

Like a cooling dessert,

In a vacant neon desert.

It would comfortably  stay in that tree.

And  comfortably sway in that tree.

As time

&

Space

&

Coincidences

Passed by like credits

At the end of a good-movie.

Even the tree began to show it’s age.

It’s leaves, frequently leaving.

But the birdcage never wavered.

When the rain came,

The birdcage did not ask for an umbrella.

It provided shelter for  it’s often tentative occupants.

And sang along with it’s sworn enemies.

This birdcage could have done so many things.

It could have superseded all the computers.

And done all they’re math.

It could have

Gone all twelve rounds.

So many things,

But instead it swung content in a state of perpetual suspension,

Like a clock.

While not keeping the slightest bit of time.

And did something that

So many things

Don’t have the stomach

Or fortitude,

Or altitude.

To do.

While staring down the barrel of inevitable oxidation.

Provided by the temperate nature

Of rain and air.

The birdcage,

Quite simply,

Hung up there.

Hung in there.

It occupies a small portion of

Unfinished land.

In a sector of a nearly finished product.

An aluminum can,

Surely bought for a bargain.

Shines,

In the sun,

So nicely.

 So nicely,

In the sun.

The can is empty,

But far from it.

This aluminum relic,

That would rival any sunken ship,

Home to so many deceased centipedes.

The can

Can only stand by

And observe,

Birds & balloons,

Floating above billboards and

Necessary sunsets.

The float the can was apart of

Was of the root-beer variety.

Although it’s carbonation long ago evaporated,

Plenty of invisible pressure still

Exhibits exuberance to the creeping weeds,

To the climbing ivy.

And it builds,

Like a city.

Like an explosion.

And one day,

Perhaps as so many

Other arbitrary possessions before it,

Before the time of the can,

As a monument,

As a grounded satellite .

Before the eastern origins of origami,

Reached western pizza-parlors,

(And soon terrorized napkins everywhere.)

This can,

Contained itself.

Contained it’s spirit.

In a way,

In such an unimaginable way.

A cold counterpart.

A fleeting outline of itself.

An incomplete sketch, done in darkness.

It is where symmetry stands firm.

And irregularity is washed away like watercolor

In a hurricane.

Realized and then forgotten,

In the same moment,

By the very same architects.

Quicker than a blink.

But slower than a lightning strike.

With more poignancy than an empty vending machine.

Two at a time,

Is how they usually follow.

Carefully positioned over a

Colder shoulder,

These colder shadows.

And even under frequent incubation,

They will indisputably retain they’re glacial glow.

&

All the

Worldly wildlife,

Rife with carbon

(& Such sweet fruit.)

Have these shadows.

(In spades)

And as the raccoon’s playfully sneak up on unsuspecting garbage cans,

And as an inhibited shooting star propels itself through the throws of a

  Spilled-milk-atmosphere.

These relatives have the same shadows.

Even when it’s below freezing.

Even when space is involved.

A vile filled with

Vinegar,

And water,

(And some other inactive ingredients)

(Oil noticeably absent in this scenario)

Resembles in

Shape

&

Clarity

An ordinary vase,

For some flowering plant to sprout.

Bought not from

A  roadside boutique,

That would emphasize an affinity for both

Flora

&

Fauna

But instead from

A  crowded grocery store

That plays music that

Cant

Ever

Seem

To

Be

Heard

That also

 Somehow specializes in both,

Pest control

&

Garden-hoses.

 Stored  on cold metal shelves,

Next to

Painted fish

Trapped in tanks,

Living on shelves,

Swimming in such bright lights,

Breathing  in the luminescence,

Instead of the water.

But the smell,

The poison,

From this treacherous trap,

Punctuates

&

Permeates,

Clinging to the near-by counter-tops,

That are already littered with crumbs from

A recently consumed bagel.

(Cockroaches already having fled the scene, once the lights became apparent)

Inviting all other insects from all around to dance here,

Even the congregation of reverent mantes attends,

Blessing the ceremony

With both

Their presence

&

Their scythes.

They are not exempt, though.

They too will dance their final dance.

And pray their final prayers.

For a  full months time,

(Excluding leap-years)

It will become an almost permanent fixture.

An acrylic mausoleum.

Getting washed for free by

Accidental splashes

Of

Synthetic lavender

&

Very real lemon juice.

So to retain it’s shine,

&

It’s effervescent splendor.

In addition to being the recipient

Of

Of many misplaced sun-beams,

Through fragmented kitchen windows,

Obviously meant for other commodities.

Looking more

&

More like a movie -star every day.

Looking more and more,

Like a statue,

Every day.

And as idle idols will insist,

A persuasion will ensue.

Sugar

&

Salt particles,

(Alpha & Omega)

Will gather at the base

Of  the eventual sarcophagus.

Gradually dissolving the line

Between,

Pet and pest,

And exponentially increasing

The ubiquitous  appeal  of the trap every day.

Even to the throng of

Spiders that spin webs like wizards,

 Because even these casual ingredients,

Sugars,

&

Spices

(Spiders also included)

 Know that,

So long, as

The disingenuous trap remains,

Presiding over the lawless kitchen,

(Like a proud sheriff.

Of a tumble-weed town.)

Steadily infecting it with the stench of

Deception

(And vinegar, still)

The

Cruel wax-paper replacement,

The tasteless,

The odorless

Entity.

(With no relation to the sticky-note)

Wont

And cant be the next dignitary to take the stage.

The wax paper doesn’t discriminate

(Or know the difference)

Between

 Consumables

&

Arthropods

Ingesting

&

Then digesting both

Spider

&

Spice,

Would become a matter of simple circumstance.

Reducing them to  a perpetual state of visceral fluidity.

Like the prehistoric tar-pits,

That are the obvious predecessors.

The original museums.

 

It is perhaps

A modern day Roanoke.

(Although this colony is shrouded in significantly less mystery)

(And much less alleged tragedy)

A wicker basket, containing

This buffet of buttons and belts,

This cacophony of socks.  

Inclined to simply subsist in the presence of

The persistent existence

Of so many

Mundane sundries.

However,

At one point,

The socks were cautiously awaiting general passivity.

To be

&

To not to be.

(Worn)

Tucked away

&

Turned inside out,

Like

Inverted caterpillars

In cocoons made of wool.

Sleeping.

Sleeping.

Resting atop

Pretentious suspenders

&

Discarded

Price tags.

A regular bed of leaves.

But now,

The legion of socks

Have been separated

(For the second time)

From the ranks of various other garments,

And  now lay stuffed between

The grungy reaches

Of

The

Side

By

Side

Sister appliances.

(That are more antonym than synonym)

From beneath the depths,

From between the rumbling machines,

The socks watch

A slow world unfold

In shadows.

Delicate sweaters

Hang

Like majestic banners,

Before a colorful battle.

Dancing slowly

Like elegant royalty,

When a door opens

&

Retreating when it closes.

 Floating

Miles

&

Miles

Above,

Gradually growing more  and more stale than the

Already artificial Ficus,

With each passing minute.

These sweaters

&

Shirts

These sleeves and

Smocks,

Flow like a procession

Into the brighter closet light,

Carried by accomplished hands,

Into an apparent palace of reverent apparel.

And after

Every third

Or

Fourth

Cycle,

(Which translates into six or seven moons)

A broom handle or

Miscellaneous garage-tool will

Forge a path,

Guided by a now aggravated hand,

To retrieve them,

To resuscitate them.

To put them in their place.

(With the other underwear)

Sifting through pyramids

That were assembled with hot air

&

Integrated with elements from

Both

Needles

&

Haystacks

&

 Various elements of other debris so fine,

That the very dust of diamonds,

Would revert to coal.

And then to black again.

 

There are

No more molecules,

No

More vertebrates.

Thoughts or feelings.

Dot the sky,

Like

Wispy crowds of clouds,

That gather around

The water cooler,

And simultaneously aid in spilling it.

The astral  janitor,

Whose prospects have always been good,

&

Whose memory is typically

Sharp like jagged geodes,

Long ago

Let the sun burn out.

The mailman,

Whose  very  engaged feet at one point traversed the globe,

Took

A seat to feed the pigeons.

And a break from the crows.

So now the mail-boxes

Sick

With

Sin

Overflow into the streets.

Attempting to surrender.

(Hopelessly waving red-flags, because no white ones are available to them.)

 But there are still lines.

Lines.

Remain.

Amorphous space ships

Take

Ambiguous pictures,

Surrounded by a backdrop of black skies,

And attempt to

Calculate

&

Manipulate

 The  universe.

That is usually

Literally linear.

But their futility is well known.

To aliens.

To the audience.

&

To the gallery.

Parallel lines

Provide congruent

&

Ample traction for

Trains with no conductors

To

Distribute goods

To the

Smiling skeletons.

Who wear hats with feathers that are still very alive.

These lines that intersect.

Elementary school gallows reserved

For

Those who cant spell.

These lines that inspect.

Those introspective lines.

The lines that

Exist in a perpendicular,

Particular corner,

Of a world.

A forgotten apiary,

A forgotten confectionery.

 Here the few have pet polygons,

Tied to stakes

Also used to open

Empty cans,

Of

Formaldehyde

And slay

Ancient vampires.

The few here,

Who have chosen to stay.

Who have made it in a world of

Composed of

Arithmetic

&

Instruction manuals,

Whose print  is too small,

For even itself.

It’s pretentious self.

The few,

That still

Like the feeling,

The original feeling.

The state of so many unions.

The subtle warmth,

Of

Grass, underfoot.

Sloshing around,

Under a dripping

Naked body,

Between  calloused ankles

And

Tired feet that act as dams,

To

Create a soapy tide-pool.

Water that drips down

From

The alert ear-lobes,

Like melting icicles.

Luke-warm icicles.

Can be found here.

Ribbons of water

Dance like

Falling confetti  during a parade,

Thrown by troubadours and

Smiling clowns,

Coming into furious contact with

Rhyme & reason,

Abdicating

Body & mind

Of all responsibility.

Then the water becomes stagnant.

The water becomes still.

This is no watering hole,

No place for

Carnivores.

This is no blue-lagoon.

Amoebas cannot exist here,

And wear lazy island hats made of straw.

The astringent nature of the

Soaps made mostly of syrup

Do not support that type of delinquency.

This same water.

With so many talents,

Doesn’t stir,

Or froth,

For long though.

Rocking back and fourth,

In a porcelain bassinet,

Like a porcelain baby.

An artificial ocean lulled  entirely to sleep.

Because in it’s short time here,

It does its best to

Do such an  astute impression,

Of crashing waves,

Upon eroded mountain faces,

…Minus the sound.

Differentiation is utterly unclear.