BENEATH TREES
Near a country temple, beneath trees, the square pool reflects leaves ~ green, yellow, red, with glints of sun. Something about it draws more visits. On a moonlit night, water slips through fingers. Thoughts prone to amble like radio waves diminish as noise recedes.
I added a side of fries, on some days. Through normal people insanity passes unseen, earning eggs sunny side up for breakfast. Rather than tobacco in those days were fronds of the bird of paradise plant, with its blue beak exploding sharp spikes of orange fingers. And my gnome, blessed with latakia, tamped his meerschaum pipe. With its well tempered brown patina, it had fallen off the porch, vanishing into reality. He was spirited away into a faithful dream.
Drowsy, humid weather awakens with a start, opening the eye of a hurricane intuited from behind, on the stare of a stranger just over one shoulder. With results banishing all reasonable predictions. Every fortune cookie splits open with parables speaking in tongues. Weird events, collated third eye to ankle bone, inevitably do make sense to the unimpeded mind.
Migrations are tides in the sea of overpopulation. Inner city homeless are shoreline rocks previously unmarked, becoming harbingers of a compromised immune system. Antiques Road Show is elsewhere, but artifacts are repaired and polished, photos strung back together with Certificates of Appreciation. Oh, to be a fly on the covered cook wagon, flipping burgers in the last job not devoured by Artificial Intelligence. Art is everlasting.
So intense, the trembling traces of memory. No literary memes, however muted, are relevant here.
Desiccated stingerless bees?
On the upside, I abolish war. It's not impossible. And that's just to begin.
Poised at roller coaster's summit, the arrow of time pants, straining at its leash behind the blind. The wooden scaffold as seen from the beach is a skeletal coliseum, paid for with tribute due ancestors, but looking down the tracks and just beyond the first turn, a void is spotted. Clap a fellow traveler on the back ~ See?
Hot dogs on a grill spice the air, and the band plays on. Tickets have been purchased. It would be a shame . . .
When in Rome, wear a Toga. In a nuthouse, appear to be an intern. No one will notice. I release my homing pigeon. There it goes, flapping out past the Ferris wheel, heading for parts unknown.
Amidst city lights and remnant jingles, inborn moments are not extinguished, opposites of childish grubbing. Inherent streams and paths of our pollination are instilled by galaxies. I encourage them.
The doorman at the Rosicrucian temple cinches his belt, squeezing out a bit of belly, some girth is sauce for an EKG. When a hurricane severs the food supply, fat is survival. In a starving wasteland devoid of art is food for thought. Behind the dais of City Hall, framed in a convex mirror, is a selfie of the mayor snatching water. Everyone laughs, including her. Fake news! Ponds of nuclear waste on the outskirts are officially zoned for quarantine villages, affordable to denizens of the thermonuclear establishment. The dosimeter clicks cheerfully. The steaming rock in Central Park is adorned with its plaque: Habitus Perpetual
My improbabilities boil down to a matter of opinion.
We smell the candles, a twinkling candelabra with small, red glass beads. The aroma is still enjoyed. A bird song. Mr. Finch is cheeping. Dark night has become an interpretation of broad daylight during a spring storm while building a dam of rocks, twigs, plastic bags, bottle caps, discarded spray cans, meerschaum pipes, stuff has a way of reinventing itself.
At any moment – a geyser of flame! Embers to rockets to the moon, all of which were improbabilities in their early stages. Yielding clues when not taken too seriously.
The early massive accumulations are powerful, prone to accidental obliteration. In a capsule at the very tip are the few selected, too earthbound to be much more than carried along. Thermogeddon confronts the biosphere. Smoking is not allowed in the capsule.
Falling away in flame and thunder, I tamp gnome's pipe, outpuffing the dragons of antiquity. It will do, since giving up smoking some forty-six years ago. Rockets are fine for an orbital view that is tidally locked like the moon. Looking out the other way there are galaxies of dark matter, black holes where light does not escape, even though no one knows what gravity is. And that is the view through my capsule.
We face the void as though it were chicken soup. Whatever ails, it's the broth that heals. And might as well. Feel free to add some salt. What difference does it make at blastoff, all this talk of hypertension? The doctors were wrong. Not fake news – my hypertension cured itself.
Our finches warn of the neighbor's kittens, squiggling in through the channel beneath the fence. And nothing said about lighting the pipe, actually. The latakia is impossible to see. And if this were a story, wouldn't this be the end?
But this is just the beginning.
