The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_
Tomorrow will see some brown rice dyed red. It's going to be about fire breathing illusions.
In a strong wind, red ripe geraniums strew petals that blow in any direction, a reminder of our national clown race for President. Humbuggers, the elite of this earth. Not that they're so different, it's just a matter of amplification. Everyone on our lonely planet, so far as anyone knows, is the elite of the universe.
So long as the supposed contest travels home town precincts, it can become a plum pie. It will be a piece of baked reasonableness. It will encourage forty butterflies, or black crows. A pleasure strolling this path.
Subways and overpasses are familiar flights, and an apple, if you don't live in a food desert. The devil is in the seeds. Take this around the neighborhood or put it up on our government sponsored community apple barrel. Take a poll and count the results. Numbers are facts. How many seeds per average bridge? This is real. So pay attention.
Sunset in its magnificence needs at least a tree or a building to be eligible for lift off. Then kittens dance, forty crows in the pie are laughing and soon the permissions fan out to ordinary experience, leading to plum jam, as logical as the Red Queen at her stop light, keeping track of mad hatter road rage cars passing over her magnetic sensor beneath the asphalt. Underground there a fireplace is, or ought to be or a campfire with red glowing coals, dare I mention the rice cooking, though it's a replica of another space in time merely, and some idea of staring it down.
The Red Queen pops out of her manhole by the light and screams:
“Off with their geraniums!”
From the telephone junction box on the corner comes a mating cry:
“Geronimo! Montezuma rides again!”
An ambulance wails by, the driver waving a Taco.
Hasn't this happened at least once?
Straight to the red beating heart of it, recollection or the Queen, the elite, the known universe --
Somehow a lonely butterfly on its own, and a fly on the nose of that kid in the crosswalk, breathing a sigh . . . by golly Miss Molly, yum tummy, red rice in the afternoon!
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The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_