OK so seriously,
what is it with the rosewater
sunset and the
vanilla crème clouds,
the effervescent
streaks of skylight slowly to be swallowed
by the prepubescent moon?
What is it with that lady
next door in all her menopausal gloom,
huffing Marlboro’s near streetlights and the
blanched-bibbed geese
who catching a whiff of the nicotine splendor
propel themselves
even further
into the robotic birds realm.
In which maybe a boy floats
above,
bespectacled childish whimsy etched on
the few lines on his face,
as he says to his father; “daddy, daddy,
can we fly up where the astronauts live?
Where they fly up in
rockets through thick and thin?”
Through insubstantial matter and the receding hairlines
of clouds, they launch themselves into
vertigo;
a half state,
Middle Earth.
Somewhere where nodding lights
are their only street signs
and the braniac moon men are your
only neighbors,
(though you don’t want them for yourselves),
they are not friends you choose,
with their fishbowl heads
and synthetic marshmallow
exteriors, leaps and movements
eerily slow like
springtime reindeer or
the fetus with the grazed brain.