Hooligans and flies flit about
and wonder at the color and size
of things that float above them
not knowing why or if it even matters.
Flowers and cars careen
in colors bent on swinging
while puffs of flour and sand
melt into the gathering dusk.
“Its time for lunch” said one
while another shouted “dinner!”
Who knows what may come up
after a breakfast of leaves.
If the podium of ranting
carries the font of knowledge
into the hearts and hearses
that surround our halls
Its high time that someone salutes
and bids welcome to the grunt
that heralds the fainting of the shrewd
in the temple of the curiously sane.
But why not wonder at the light
that passes over the soft hills and shelves
that hide the pleasant from the cool
and picks up the shadows of sins
Held deeply within the folds of tissue
that surround our nest and issue forth
a scent of cinnamon and creosote
on the greening of the sands.
Come forth now into the darkness
and feel the cold wind of rebirth
and wallow in its soft and comforting
blast of invigorating fire. Hold forth.
For the fourth time, come forward
and force the foreskin formulary of flint
into a furnace of fuming fallacy
and fall into glorious failure faintly.