PRELUDE

A full moon passes over waters of the inland sea, penetrating down into crevices of the earth. Remnants of abandoned things submerged seem like thoughts forgotten, briefly glowing in the passing light. Water sprites floating by become music.

Sprightly tunes that play well in major keys can sputter in minor currents.

Charlie Byrd and Charlie Parker are from different ponds. In La Mer, Claude Debussy is so other than Charlie Mingus, Ah Um. Bach and Bartok, heaven and gravel. Playing outside the groove, Byrd and Bartok meet on the back porch, chatting through the screen door. So to speak.



CODA

Would it tip the magician's hand to land skipping stones? That might be. There is enough space in galaxies to spin words in their wake. It could be said that the bare bones of metaphor, all whitened in the sun, are from the dew line of time. For instance, take a chain saw chubbing along, and it flicks out a claw to scratch a flea. Normally this would go unnoticed, but ~ just maybe ~ the thought of oil is irresistible. At curtain time, it becomes that sweet lady's lap in waiting.

In spite of that twitch or, more realistically because of it, there is no little argument. Keystone arches over portals above demand satisfaction. Without as much as an Indy 500, without fumes and fury, they come to grips. Not quite so firm as you'd expect of a golfer. Not quite throwing down the Gage, but plenty and enough for lowering a window blind.

Facing the impossible, fall seepage stains the sill. Without raising a hocus or a pocus, our magician calls up a galaxy. And yes, flat as a pancake. Spiral arms blend to solidity. A fly, in its mercy, goes right on by, disappearing into the kitchen.

Is it understood, what's going on here? Few want to admit it. There is a griddle to grease. No time for the useless. Get on with populating the boat house. Set the clock forward for its time yet to come. Hear the roar. Smell the ethanol. It's a bright sunny day, and the weeds are smiling. One can smell the heat. The sky above the portal goes ablue, without shoe strings. We're rolling now.

Accidentally his hat tumbles over a stepping stone, revealing a wasted skipping stone. Ah red, redder reddest, and not just the sunset, sending doe-eyed rabbits hopping. They hop under the arch, transfixed, watching Franklin's mad passion kite go sailing, in a resurgence of time gone electric.

In the thundering, a wash tub bass is is playing bassackwards. So, Fa, Me, Ray, Doe, rabbit's big back legs thumping the back beat, floppy ears at attention..



BELL HOP'S FUGUE

Not content with whispering, the pine tree sings. It's an operatic diesel stack flapper. Then stretches out on a lawn chair. Parts of the tune jive with the wind. It's a big hug. The toot normally goes with elevator music, but not many passengers are listening. They are all busy being busy. No, not much inclination, wanting better to hoot and holler while riding the cable car.

But ah, um . . that's where the action stalls. Next to the potted geranium. Back in the day, where the conductor's bell rope swings. Grab the pine wood bob and let 'er rip! The geranium goes through stages of embarrassment – red, redder, reddest. Not quite as comfortable as a lawn chair.

As I've said, the details merge into San Francisco's fog.

The lady mounting side saddle in the side seat is consumed with a cheddar cheese sandwich. She must share it with a crow. The pine tree toots. The bell screams. Matter of perspective, considering the diesel flap is rather loose. Has to be. You wouldn't want the pressure to back up. This lady, I will tell a secret, went with a few neighbors to sit on a hill overlooking the city, to twirl parasols and watch it burn. That day in aught six.

There's the danger of stifled fumes. The memory, by George, cannot ruin a perfectly good cheddar cheese sandwich. He yanks the bob, and . . .

Ping! Ping, bling! The coal black crow is eying that sandwich. It's the usual route, trading up the freight elevator, dropping down after reaching the top. Once viewed from there, at a level with pine tops, things are hunky dory, out where the deer and the antelope used to play. With remnants of forgotten things, the big flop diesel flap is forgotten.

Just on the way up, the nice ladies meet a night janitor. He's actually from another story, but that's how the omnibus goes ~ up one flight, past several others, down three to where the ends of the earth meet.

Nuance of cheddar empties many a refrigerator, leaving the tree to pine without a lawn chair. The crow has landed. It was in that other story where he was a raven and quoth never more. So to speak.