Painted portrait porcelain sky. The threes, the trees dig in from the rooms, the roots – And stretch out endlessly. Yes, arms alway reaching. Savior song – lullabye-esque. Vocal sedative dripping downwards through an open New York City apartment window in the heat of summer, in the nighttime. He sits on the sill and nostalgically gazes outward from this brick building and in the faint distance beyond the traffic and din of voices below, one can hear a saxophone running scales. Mosquitos swarm and dart and become a second skin for some. And we must just suffer through it. Guarding gates and attacks and those who keep our country safe. It must be a hard job. And I am grateful, but I do not envy it. Copy / paste. Amusing bass line from a passing car. There is noise. We are people under this blue sky dome. Water world incasing crevices. Duplicate maelstrom of repeated history. Scented markers in kindergarten. I should have checked it out first. Crayola guarantee. Salamander designated to slither and dream under mud, keeping watch and sleeping with one eye open. Respiratory dawn with that first inhale of bated breath. The clouds puff and start, smoking certainly. Divisive, cutthroat factory industry. We have not involved. Everything has just fermented.
Gathering round in a circle holding hands to lift up the axis of the world on daunting, daydrunk mastiffs. There is an expectation to bow or kneel in its grandeur. Blue water and sky of different shades, this purity pleasing to the eye. Rudimentary Cadillac wasteland, Kafka-esque Breaking Bad somersaults, sauerkraut, extra salt, barbeque bacon hamburgers with enough sizzle to make your mouth water and ask for seconds before you finish you first. Ships have sailed and navies have existed for quite sometime now. I wonder about the daybreak and how that must feel to see; To see as a focal point, from a central location the world rising up before you in ‘Good Morning’ greeting. Hallmark card vacation fantasy island with pineapples and coconuts and all things tropical, including mangoes and papayas. The saccharine fruit juices we had as kids pale in comparison. They aren’t real. They’re just meant to be sweet and to be desired. Destitute time collapse, time travel lunchbox, a Portkey to some other dimension. Harry Potter could probably get super-meta in fan fictions I have not read and probably will never read. But I can think about it. Brother Benny in Deep Space Nine. You can’t kill an idea. Passioned collapse on the hardwood floor. That floor is mulch now and maybe I am obsessed with the passing of time. Yellow cardinal nailpolish, must be some bird mutt. A freak egg accident. Stumbling home on Downing Street completely alone.