art by R. Hautmann--1920
“A chorus of typewriters sing songs that praise
bananas for their wisdom & leadership.”
Cola, after fifty years, will taste
Frozen rocking chairs, living outside,
sprout bucolic blossoms.
Gills on a metal workhorse belch
dulcet diesel smoke.
The Armory wore its necktie,
meraki-tied as a dendroid.
Signs of NO, posted by absent bullies,
conjure swollen knuckles.
First comes erodent abandonment,
and the your “E” hangs asunder.
A truck of camo-war parked in a yard
of peace creates ludicrous imbroglio.
The little Alamo, sporting plywood arch patches,
had not seen a Mexican in a 100 years.
Alas a photonic anomaly, one building inside
another, floating freely on glass.
Surrounded by grumpy geometry, we need
to become much more calculating.
The barely red curbs seemed inseparable,
but even that was illusory.
Post-patina, unwatched threshers, become
indistinguishable from prairie carpet.
Does your pathway actually beckon,
or does it bark?
Golden waxed Terraplanes stop
for cold beers in Kapowsin.
A bungalow by the sea, with bananas
in back, pulled up its skirts.
Pieces of Atlantis, faces of Herculaneum,
rise up one arch at a time.
Mosaic portals create a dour smile
on the gray sprawl.
Damned cathedrals, regardless of faith,
bend us to our knees.
Thwarted busy fists, windmilling wildly,
are saddened by shadows.
Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA
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