What was seen

Could never be

Unseen,

It melted the matter in his eyes,

His senses and the

Invisible sky,

Together in a cascade of

Perpetual blue,

Which was layered across the heavens,

Like thick lacquer

By the handy orange airplanes,

And the ghostly kites that hovered,

Just above the tanned hides of the greasy masses

And the

Fortunate

Fortunes,

Buried long ago under

Scores of empty sea-shells.

Laying there,

On a towel that

Barely

Even

Survives

The Dryer.

Sand whipped across his back,

But

Not stinging

Like

Sand should.

Instead,

Alleviating itches

He would be

Having

Ten years in the future,

With a touch like a

Mermaids tail.

And for another moment,

He wasn’t entirely sure

This experience,

Was courtesy of the usually bashful breeze.

Or if,

Perhaps,

His very own

Ions and electrons,

Were being swept up into some galactic stir-fry,

(With plenty of pearls, among other ingredients)

By a passing white  cloud,

Wearing an

Apparently,

Inconspicuous

Chefs hat.

It is truly a cherry on top.

Tied neatly,

Like a Christmas bow,

By motivated factory hands,

And whisked away,

Into a truck filled to the brim with Pumpernickel and Rye.

Driven by the unsteady hands,

Of a madman,

Drunk off of carbohydrates.

The uptight twist-tie.

Is perhaps,

More organic in principle,

Than the loaves of bread themselves,

Who are

Filed neatly into transparent sleeping bags.

Filed away from oxygen and insects alike.

The mighty tie is the first line of defense.

Wound into such a dazzling knot,

That the garden-hose would be jealous of its

Microscopic accomplishment.

And turn their brass heads,

In shame.

Only the most determined

(Or Starving)

Fingers can crack this tangled cipher.

Once,

And

If,

The tie is bested

By

Superior extremities,

It will not sulk.

It will not retaliate and release

Noxious gasses,

Or fire deadly darts

Or deploy

                                              Rolling

                                                                Boulders,

This tie is no poor sport.

Because after every

New loaf of bread,

Is broken,

The tie is thoughtlessly tossed,

Into the suffocating depths,

Of a nearby trashcan.

And immediately,

It begins it’s descent,

Like the confident earthworm,

To the bottom of the bag.

It’s goal was and is,

Not to lay

Idle & buried,

Like the defeated,

Banana peels.

Instead,

To provide light

(And insight)

To this low-density Polyethylene world,

With the help of a

Growing pile,

Of  extremely extinguished matches,

That have managed to settle like sediment.

And shine like a monument.

At the bottom of this

Very

Crowded

Tunnel.

Deliberately demonstrating to the drops

Of calcified ice-cream,

And frayed Chinese finger-traps,

That there is more to this

This fantastic,

Elastic wasteland.

Than a simple  life of refuse.

The four

Coiled faces,

Have always smiled

Four warm smiles.

It’s porcelain exterior shines well in the latitude of the kitchen light.

(More so when frequently buffed)

Providing synthetic warmth,

To the legs

Of the cockroaches

That

                                             Scurry

                                                                                  Across

Without sound,

On hungry,

Lonely nights.

After every meal,

The knobs,

The bells & whistles,

Are wound to to the “off” position.

Leaving so many

Degrees of varying

Degrees

To the imagination.

The buzzing belly,

Slowly powering down now,

For good this time.

Across the un-swept sea,

On another counter-top,

Light-years away,

A far-away microwave

Waves farewell to it’s ancient ancestor,

This prehistoric,

Preheated cave,

 That has seen so many

Majestic birds

And beasts

Deliciously baked

(Or Broiled)

 Right into the hungry

Salivating mouth of extinction.

Upon professional excavation,

Of the oven,

By hands dressed in

Decorative mitts,

Uncover ancient drawings,

Sprawled across it”s walls,

By the geysers of

Cascading casseroles,

Of Thanksgivings past.

So many

“Just desserts”

And

“Last suppers”

Now in it’s enamel rear-view.

It’s whole life,

Seared in steam,

Eroded into the spongy cabinets

That hang

Like

Cheap

Stalactites,

Above the four,

Laughing faces.

The four burning faces.

Whose destiny it was to only and

Ever,

Glow bright orange,

Like four Burning planets,

And then fade to black,

Will leave more stories,

Than charred crumbs,

There is no

Surrounding desert,

No rolling, dusty dunes,

Accompanying this particular oasis.

Just 21

3 story

Concrete tents,

A devestated basketball court,

Laid to waste by both earthquakes

And

Footsteps.

And a lazy fitness center that tags along, as well.

But the beating heart

Of this

Complex,

Complex,

Is the community pool.

A community jewel.

A shallow sapphire.

Cut amongst a patch of trees.

(Most likely by sweaty gods, tired of yardwork.)

Tumultuous turmoil and

Apparent conflict lingers all around,

Swelling and stinking in the hot sun, like

A recently deceased something.

But none of it is relevant.

                           Once it reaches these reverent gates.

Guarded by erect umbrellas and

Supported by the slouching chairs.

This rarely swept terra-cotta patio,

(That has never, ever burned even a single foot)

Who lounge in the spotlight of the sun,

Disregarding doctors recommendations to apply slimy spf’s,

And instead chase sleep,

While snoozing on a chaise lounge.

Their pink bellies covered only by a magazine from yesterday.

(Their closed eyes obviously covered by eyelids.)

Even while awake,

Some of them observe nothing.

The Spanish moss that

Dangerously dangles

From tree-limbs overhead

Serve as casual weather vanes,

Indicating the arrival and departure of the busy thunderstorms.

An occasional,

And very capable  fire-ant,

Patrols the perimeter.

Making  sure that any

Discarded pizza crusts,

(Left-over from a party featuring scores of beautiful  balloons and bright plastic cups)

Stay out of sight.

Music from

Mysterious stereos is always welcome,

But they will always compete with the bees

And birds

(And fail)

For top billing.

Besides the fallen leaves, that float like tiny catamarans,

And the children that need wings to fly in this water,

This pool

Is

  Much

Much

more than  just a pool. 

It is a landmark,

Not  illustrated on any map.

Or documented in any history book.

(Although it should be)

It is right where it needs to be.

He means as much

To this particular

Patch of earth,

As the surrounding weeds do.

He graciously

Waters the

Thirsty soil,

In a feeble attempt,

To stimulate some of the fallen flowers.

Only to see the

Greedy weeds,

Suck it all up, both in

And through their veins.

(Not even saving seconds for the starving centipedes.)

He pleads with the relentless invaders,

To share at least a portion of

 Of the foreign fertilizers,

That he tirelessly works to afford,

With his family of

Crumbling chrysanthemums,

And the now

Exhausted eggplants.

And to live in harmony with

The

Green,

Green,

Grass.

But the

Despicable weeds

Once again,

Turn their backs.

And the man,

(The desperate gardener, in this case)

Is left with a decisive decision.

Accept the weeds as an occasional aquaintence.

Or betray the weeds,

(Who both suspect, and expect nothing)

By drawing his shiny spade,

Like a Holy Roman Senator,

Missing only a tunic that is only missing ancient  bloodstains,

And stab them in the back.

 As the tired soil,

Abundant with craters and drought,

Absorbs the newly introduced carbon,

(By the virtue of murder)

Not as a sacrifice,

But as a gift,

And with some last,

Immortal words,

He remembers them.

et tu, zizania?

From simple showers

Squeeze steady streams.

Bursting out of

A stainless – steel resovoir,

Marching in single file surges,

Encouraged and

Propelled by

A certain pressure,

That always remains unseen.

(And is scarcely understood)

Trapped behind at least,

Two layers of 

Chlorinated vinyl,

That rivals even the silkiest of spider-webs,

Whistles or hums can scarcely be heard,

The same forgotten jaunty tunes,

That permanently echo from tile to tile,

Combined

With dripping and  the sound of

Swirling drains,

Work to create an empty soundtrack.

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

But never really replacing them.

 And over in the 

 Condensated corner,

Is an unfortunate bathroom plant.

And near it,

Is where the also-unfortunate

Spiders,

Live their tiny existance.

Not feeding,

Or farming but instead,

(While having no other obvious contributions to submit)

Spin untimely,

Wayward piles of dust,

Into tiny oragami dolls

And file them

Away in cracks that resemble cabinets,

Created by

The constant erosion of faulty caulking.

This is no place for this beacon of beauty.

This resemblance of life stuck in

This misty,

 Only-lit-by-lightbulbs jungle.

This lonely arboreal diety,

Hearing the constant slam

Of sliding glass

And mistaking them for

Jublious claps of thunder past,

That are now never followed by rain, but instead

Bubbles and the smell of bleach.

The flickering of artificial

Light,

Looks like lightning,

(For a split second)

But generates no substantial form of

Outstanding electricity.

It will forever only ever feel the 

Stinging touch of reclaimed rainwater.

(That is universally known to be undrinkable.)

This confused caladium,

Infused with expiring carbon will

Forever be confused about its

Obviously mistaken placement.

Because expecting acceptable maitanence,

In a purgatorial place such as this,

Is unequivocally unacceptable.

Because more often than not,

The best botany,

Is undoubtedly bred,

On the best of balconies.

It is important

For

The domesticated plants,

Stuffed into plastic pots

By plastic people,

To be exposed to

Moonlight

As well as

Sunlight.

Not only for the sake of contrast,

But so that,

That particular plant

Will never forget the environment

Where it’s once wild roots,

Formerly  took refuge.

A new desk is always a level playing feild.

Bought then,

Tediously assembled from out of a package,

Complete with the smell of

Mothballs and mouth watering

Step-by-step directions.

Or perhaps,

Purchased whole-sale

From a recently Widowed mistress.

It is where war is waged.

Pitting the

Punctual clock’s,

Against the

Precise calendars.

 It is a solar system.

(With texture)

It is the next greatest monument,

In any room.

(Second only to the marvelous rug.)

But far above the

Shady curtains.

The desk can support the weight

Of any

Pen.

Or the mass of any

Brave being,

Daring enough

To use it as

A step-ladder,

(To just barely reach a crooked picture.)

But best of all,

Any desk,

New

Or

Old.

Is  frequently a sight for a usually unseen spectacle.

Where the savage teeth of the written word,

Collaborate with the most stubborn of sciences,

While still managing to

Coexist

Peacefully,

With a multitude of mathematic coefficients.

Rivers of spilled white out

Can easily be mistaken for ancient cave-paintings,

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

But the piles of leftover eraser shavings,

(Carefully swept by impatient hands)

Are quickly determined to be

In-accurate artifacts.

Of an otherwise very authentic,

Exaggeration.

Fluffy vessels

Bob boundlessly

Atop

The Warm chocolate waves.

That are only dictated,

By the occasional

Prescence, of the

Crescent spoon that

Hangs just below the horizon,

Of this Styrofoam ocean.

Pudgy fingers

Like greedy

Pirates,

Pluck the fuffy barrels of sugar

From the frothy troughs of

The seasonal soup.

And fire them like cannonballs,

Into a greedy mouth,

Where they bounce 

Like

Balls

Off a trampoline tounge,

And

Ricochet  from tooth to tooth

Like a runaway pinball.

(Obliterating the former high score)

The marshmallows are not afraid.

Because the teeth, although obviously sharp,

Resemble the marshmallows, in both appearance,

And in splendid,

Candid spirit.

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

It’s length

Can only be determined

By circumstantial circumference,

Divided by a full moon,

And then

Multiplied by

How

Many

Skips

A particular rock will take,

On its trip

Across the pond.

Heaved by the same

Hands that

Sweat at the sight of

Wet cement.

Stable sidewalks,

Entertain the tiniest of traffic.

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

And centipedes filling in the gaps.

Forming very formidable processions,

That shield

The traveling salesman,

Or

A salesman traveling,

From the judgemental eyes of the

Turtles nestled in the shallow

Regions of a considerably

Deep

Lake.

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

In a patch of grass

Near a long ago,

Widowed,

Willow,

 Is where the wonderful weeds grow.

Where the old band once stood.

Where any ordinary

Tramp armed with only

A fishing pole

(And an adaquete wrist)

Can easily part an entire orchestra of

Former dinosaurs,

Without shouting or even

Sharpening his wicked  guillotine.

And this is  especially where

That same tramp,

Or any

Ordinary hero,

Will  always get a

Constant,

Standing ovation

From the  always thankful,

Supporting cast of surrounding trees.