ON A LEAFLESS TREE

Chasing his tail in a circle, Woof barked through the open door. Such temerity wasn't his first lapse in a neighborhood of rappers. He had gone through that same door when the masterpiece disappeared. And then the obvious lack of planning was reminiscent of Uri Geller.

It was considered very democratic. A green breeze furled out the tattered curtain, greeting a street band. Rag tag, and it mattered not whether they stomped a back beat. Rhythm was king.

Then we heard how the sow's purse became a pig's ear. It's truly a treat. Great orators, upon hearing the story, have suddenly decided to take the trolley, The A Train, and wouldn't you know . . .

First off, it's every man, woman and child reaching for the bell rope. Give it a yank, and the whole damn world wakes up to the smell of coffee! Puppets dance, flinging strings to the wind.

Well, the original theme followed a forgotten flag, wagging its tail with parcels of sunlight skipping through leaves. It was a pageant of belly button rappers weaving through caterpillar crowds, tracing through blue donkey beads in their volcanic finery, and Tesla sparking white signals to Mother Earth.

And you knew, didn't you? Isn't this how they grow? Oh, the plan – but what do mushrooms care?

Uri Geller bends spoons by thinking. It's truly a treat. And also in the realm of thought, if extra sensory perception is unaffected by a Faraday cage, and time goes away in a precognitive experience, and telepathy and remote viewing happen without regard to distance, the physical abode of thought seems unimportant. In short, thought is not exclusively material. In fact, when probed at a subatomic level, material is an uncertain manifestation. Particles are seen as waves, and vice versa, depending on the intent of the observer. Entanglement, called “spooky action at a distance” by Einstein, bleeds away as entangled particles pass through neighborhoods containing particles with other entanglements. Thought is not an it.

Then what is this about? Perhaps writing is redundant. But I don't think so, not when compared with the experience of reading. Even as words are notoriously capable of misinterpretation, admittedly inadequate, they are a conduit to the author. A meeting of minds can happen, without regard to the fiction of time. Dialect, distance and diction fade to insignificance as thought passes through static. It may be that sound and the rhythm convey more than the carrier. I compare it to a committee of sincerely untrained singers.

The weight of centuries is felt in events, crushing molecular structure, invisible, out of conscious recollection. Thus a mind submits, foregoing investigation: Does it matter? Why dig up a dead horse? But wait. It will saddle up the next incarnation.

The rutted road is established, casting calibrated shadows that are too shallow to have contained pain. All is well, flowing through the artist's brush, conjuring a pleasant sunset.

Then one certain day, blinding further terminations, day is night, night is not, and repetitions are void, strictly speaking. Of course they continue to pass, and having past are gone. One might say night is right and day is not, with one and the same result, strictly speaking.

Each day, centuries in the making, unfolds a century. Time is a joker, a Janus mask in the morning, theatrical at night, weaving webs that disappear upon waking. Which has nothing to do with sleep . . .

Sleep is an entertainment of supposed gods, clogging the mind, but shared beyond recollection, urging deferred investigations.

The unburdened mind jousts with Janus in the morning. Laughter is fair turn about, a fair game.