PUFF
Out of the sand pit, arriving for her high school reunion, comes the virgin in her chariot. Identities are exchanged on business cards.
Maybe the recollection of a hay loft. Riding a porch swing that rocked Uncle Ben to a snooze, these are the cards of a different deck, Tarot filtered for a mourning dove. They have filled school books less with attention than what most reasonable snails leave on glittering trails. There is a snort, a whinnied snuff as close to laughter as a horse can get.
Sharp edges are out there in a flat world, whose chase and capture stories also fall flat. But a peanut butter thumb stirs celestial batter, rolling out the rainbow for cookie cutters in several shapes: ginger bread man, nuclear weapons expert, aunt Jamaica, banker, rub a dub baker.
There is no end of delight in these lapis lazuli jewels, teleported to the seventy third floor of a rising skyscraper, without walls yet. Forest vistas from this height are true figments of an imagination from which no water slide escapes. And those planned visions were glass plate photographs with sharp edges that stretched over medieval pain.
Slithering construction toads caught Channel 5 drones, pulling their dream catchers from ghostly elevators to prevent premature suicides. The purple heart beating wildly offered a captured medal in exchange for Uncle's snorts, as onlookers mistaken for ants tossed pussy hats high.
Cameras pan left. Now!
A trailing scream is caught on You Tube, rewarded with bit coins that, unfortunately, were subject to sanctions interpreted by an off duty IRS agent who stopped by in synchronicity. And the Blue Angels who were flying overhead made the whole thing a wash. A detail that escaped Uncle's front porch swing, swinging quietly, snoozing.
Faster than the blink of a speeding firefly came the precognition, the cookie flour that crowds deal with on freeways, watched over by loving drones. Concrete and steel are so transparent, electromagnetically speaking, that there is no hay loft in which to find an original painting.
Butterfly untraceable, dropping bits of laughter, saw more colors than wings ever dreamt. Sailing through the mirage, it disappeared.
