when tea cups adjourn

songs go out to play

I imagined spun gold or candy at the Cotton City Circus, and a small trial balloon ascending. Hot air after all, and this pure blank virgin sheet either a fatted calf, or weighted sandbags. Or maybe an unlikely miracle.

It all depends on your point of view.

Let's begin at Safeway with a shopper's wobbly wheel. It rattles past the canned food isle, dreaming up a distracted mind with vague thoughts of a jazzed Formula One Greyhound. Trained in previous excursions, to recall, Hansel and Gretel scratching an ear.

A rococo bright yellow balloon, with hot dogs. And in the up or down drafts, or the wind shear of ancient or modern fiction you, dear reader, might suspect a story. We'll fix that wheel.

The harried woman's gaze met mine, “Young man!”

“Seventy-eight,” I replied.

“You're stepping on my wheel.”

The noise was unbearable. “Pardon. Allow me to introduce my    fixers, Hansel and Gretel.”

“But there's no one there!”

“So then, your wheel's good to go! Shop smoothly, and with my good wishes.”

“You people belong on a plantation.”

“As you wish . . .”

Singing through the trees, just sailing through tobacco leaves and doing Brubeck's rhythm. Down home. Snap fingers, crack knuckles, pentameter if you please. A wobbly wheel is pure latakia and rich, aromatic on my plantation. Get the beat and beat Dave to it. Younger fingers have woven Spanish moss, Sketches of Spain!

Yee Ha!

Keeping the present his/her reader in mind, or the editorial we, a wise writer and diplomat of this formerly pure sheet would do well to assemble some dry summer native California cacti. The thorny spiked ones that look like oil platforms in the desert. And for a breath of authenticity to spade a name or two into the earth. Governor Brown, known for his opposition to off shore drilling, and maybe Gloria Steinem.

For what? Oh, she said: The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.

Indulge, enjoy the fun. Out of thin air come the hot dogs, a scattering of sparklers, golden fleece of a 4^th of July night. 'Round Mustard.

A little close harmony now -- sing thirds with Gretel, fifths with Hansel clap hands, tap feet, Take Five, or two or three. Take the A  train for an Amazon Delivery out to Alpha Centauri, truer words were never more invisible.

The question nags: To be or . . .

Snap that sheet!

Feet . . .

Ah, the whistle fades to echoes.