GUMBO GONE
Pedro's image
gone beyond Wright's desert vision
glimpsed the chandelier within
it's red jewel glowing
When the doors swing open, the chandelier is humming a tune Debussy left behind.
Wright'sMyan steps were markers well understood. Perhaps chiseled to grapple present dreams, tacking down hardness forever. Wooden clogs by the door were bunk beds for the ancestors, left in their snoring.
Populate green trees if need be, or green tea, slime for that matter. How much better a chandelier than a grimy freeway, or the patina of that statue asking questions at Ellis island.
Cobwebs are the dictators of traffic in their terror, promises of thermogeddon, climate change obliterating vistas. Doors which, by the way, were there for just a jelly roll moment, a Piccadilly flea market of several faces, perhaps several all at once that disagreed, sipping through soda straws in that fabled hay stack. And not so much a stone chiseled mark as a holographic Alice. So rare is the stratosphere of this mind.
If it's only here that Lego blocks can tumble down to sea, too bad. Is it in such El Camino gutters that a nose ring should lose its bling? Think if it were brass, would that stone step stumble as your wooden horse galloped past a hole garish in red paint?
Andall of this would be a mandala of very sincere sand, meant to replicate primordial illusions, preserved in DNA through eons of experience. Here they are.
A calibration of gossamer wings, tremulous in fly wing's dance on that desert boulder of a hot sun, streaming rivulets of sweat by a mailbox on a country road in foothills by a creek that even dwellers in concrete boxes could reassemble. Start the imagination that stretches as far back as newspaper stands, flirting with failures of electric transformers hidden beneath city streets. Stored against an attack of satellites.
Those were the clogs that emptied when the channel opened.
And now the channel itself disappears, leaving off where it never was, leaving off dimensions of freedom, moments of momentum, leaving behind a snoring herd of words, and
Sail free . . .
