The secret is . . .
The winner . . .
Buy a Lotto ticket and let me know. I declare it chile con carne. But then mescaline. In between a clarinet, My Favorite Things, a spate of eight to the bar barrel house boogie, ah. But it nags. Like quitting smoking. Plug in a trip to your favorite town, city, forest. Drive around for awhile. Don't forget cash for gas.
Pescadero, quaint seaside California burg.
Paris. Aleppo. Something sneaky about rhymes. They tend to make more sense than they ought. It's an assault on pizza delivery. For anyone interested in the secret however, in winning, there is a trip to the vineyard where grapes ripen naturally in the sun. Let no one imagine, I do not, that this is conclusive. Just a clue.
In the midst of jabberwhack, somewhere in the flap of words, the answer beckons. It blooms, must it not?
Why speak of pure white daises when donkeys roam the field? Or of dodging bullets on the steps of a brown stone flat. The actual tang of chile con carne is much more than just a memory.
Tantalizing. Remember that school play? Not that every school can afford one, know what I'm saying? The great equalizer is a talent for creating art with colored chalk, maybe a can of spray paint to play to a speeding audience. Uniforms for the play can be tie dye. Brilliant days, happiness, the promise. Anyone who can get an AK-47 will deliver. Frozen pizza is an abomination.
Swamps of literature are fine for those with time and the inclination. But not for rap on the streets, not a raised fist. Raised to where?
Grass or ass, no one rides for free. Here I sit all broken hearted . . . great poets of the latrine in those glory days of abundance, real competition for business. Bright colored flags.
Now the planet is raped, wilted and bleeding, breathing noxious fumes, urine blood red rivers, Armageddon on every doorstep. Every literary shelf is a refuge of Walden Pond by the meadow, Leaves of Grass. Forgive the dreamers for they know not what they do. Missile silos are no secret, and what have they won?
Pizza just doesn't have the pizzazz of a Japanese grill. The flashing knives, pieces of acrobatic shrimp. But the secret slipped away, not under the bench exactly but in some fine details. The Samurai foundry, hours of sweaty red hot pounding on layers of steel to yield that wavering subtle finish never intended for puny fish.
Finally the Wheel of Fortune flaps to rest. A winner! But it was someone else and the car payment still due. Doesn't this seem to be true? We might collect tangentially, on the fly so to speak. Or in the placement of salvaged French doors with seemingly endless lights. But there is still the mortgage.
Move along, everyone. Show's over!
It really is getting steamy. The Arctic poles poking up like baby teeth through shrinking sea ice. Rhymes are useful now and then – Pokemon Go! Literary or not, the new adventurers. Clean the screen with a shirt tail. But still underneath it all, out there . . . . . . . .
Until at last the flags fade, to be replaced with a vibrant red geranium in full bloom. What's it's secret?
