The wait wakes in shivers, trembling slightly with the last pull & push, alive but withering with massive youthful swag and sway propounded with the white wintering that floundered Exodus with raindrops.
Science: the last flea
Mystery’s been listening, mistah
History’s been missin’ missah, I see the signs in the eyes, the baby goodbyes, we were looking for the moose in the baby caboose, still, silent emblem of the sudden and final American frontier.
Sentimental for teardrops, George washing ton of the spirit of clouds in the people’s unreluctant metal. More interested in wasting tea than tracking the West.
Gold for the crackers. Digging for centuries until the ground was so barren that the peasants ate stone.
Yonder, up steps leafing through pamphlets on communism, the snake-eyed toiler of political black magic fakes an urgency for a false deliberate people’s rope.
Johnny Appleseed feeding the folks with jokes. And William tells all with a single shot.
The science of pleading became a game of saws. All towing the nature we’d spoiled from the sacred folk, who also fought, no pedestals here, all buried beneath five ice layers of peddled ground.
Still a current cause, always a current cause, five centuries old, the devil waiting for us all. Waiting for us all to question our inner czar that fakes the peasant hard, steaming the innards of cooked intestines from his finest meal, the servings eaten in helpings as large as their man.
Alexander Hamilton and the federal bank. The corporal took charge and the banks took the funds, we were left w none, naught but assembly rows of monkey clefts and machinery made of rust.
No trust in a situation where your mother cleaves to your spirit and your sister competes with your cause. And your wife, she’s just something you picked up in the metropolitan arena while waiting for the football scores.
Depth in an eyelid. Steps eaten by clouds. I’m not shaking the chain but trying to climb high until I reach the low and my last belly burns with the fire of a meal I left over from Christmas fields we plowed in January. George, George George. Frederick, the file to free the body from personal enslavement, the spirit from lack of verbosity, or the ability to be verbose.
Junior wet the bed last Monday and we are still awaiting the results of tests performed by the best doctors in New York, they who claim aptitude to the sun, who have conquered the sun, who have ritualized the moon, unappetizing, I, the last apostle who read the last good book on the sky.
Friendly trees sway for a county that breathes with another’s blood. An individual is soaked with another nation’s blood, every citizen pleading with the inner czar for a second chance with the devil who plays his last deck of cards he left at the penny arcade on the Wednesday it opened late for last Ash Wednesday, only at the gambling center, the glam limb he used to make the ritual token in a final moment of understanding the toil clerk’s gargantuan issue with the corporate scandal.
Jefferson. The ritual of writing calligraphy. The art of the letter in picture, iconography, the picture of the words creating the beauty of message stronger than its truth, barely able to notice the spaces in between that glimmer with nothing but air.
Pooh bear whose stomach was too full for the honey. The kid who stretched his sheet over the bed in a casket. The corpse that left the spirt unevacuated. The Pharaohs who paid for liberation in mere gold tokens. The mere men whose hearts were weighed to measure their wholesomeness. If they did not weigh proportionally, they were enslaved like Tantalus, reaching for life like a flower instead of the apple.
Diagrams of petulance that demonstrate the aims of “growing up”, the way a tree’s inner circles demonstrate its years, like inner caves, deepening, deepening until the last meerkat is left on the hillside too revolted by his last meal to grow another day older, withering like a tired mountain.
The trees sobbing, the willows talking in hushed whispers, pedestrians in the wind, talking about the ending of tomorrow and its last shuddered promises. She blames the insects for her wanderings but they don’t even come to the sugar, they are too afraid to approach the ending of a system, the revolving of a turnstile, an empty door, the swaying of an inner door in a grey hushed old building that talks of yesterday like some old sorry temper.
She dimes the current weatherman with wishes of fruition and strawberries blooming under temperaments that whistle tunes scornful of joy in the seance of a yearning for something that is there but never measured. The rope swings and the curtain falls, and the blessed angels hope their counterparts will enroll in university for the next tennis match between the new school in England and the overpriced American private college.
Pestilence, watches, weights and doors. The blockages and attempts to measure as the effort for strength in an aimless arrogance, like a bumblebee with nothing to sting, all the while growing more poisonous by the mile with no sobbing story or beckoning book to teach or give apples to the clerk who waits tearless and white-faced on the steps of the corner bookstore, glistening and listening and waiting like a deer, for a tender bit of tree whistle from the forest picture he puts on his unfurnished cemetery wall.
The dance around the mystery. Pin the portrait on the last gallery inside the hidden museum. The silent carnival that awaits its own seriousness. The rides that await the climax toward a hidden meddle of depth and forestry, within a past rumbling.
Giants awaiting fangs that assault the last battery that one can commit. And we are still aching from the last assault. Peppered
by dust. Nuns of an old artistry. Nigh is the time for the monastery of a new concern, of wine and roses, science and dust.