Yum the Lotus

Even the ghosts are conspiratorial.

They too suspect the massive old gods, thin now, and lurking in the attic
Or in the facets of a contemplated and exotic bit of junkyard jade.

Just as sneeze and the air fills with monsters.

If only we could see ‘em, they’re there.

Fuck it. I make for the bread mixer.

Relax into a serene considering
While the wasps probe the screens for an in.

*

I would rather not pull and
I would rather not jog.

I’ll take mine with lemon
But hold the sugar.

A touch of bitter enlivens the appetite.

A butterfly with broad yellow wings
Is heedless of the dropped birdhouse eggs,
Thieved from a thieving magpie by a
Sociopathic little squirrel
Who pokes his yellow teeth out and
Chitters, cute for the kiddies.

His eyes scan quickly,
But are void of intent.

*

Some find themselves here, and cannot leave.

They consider leaving.

They mull it over.

They have a sense that leaving might be right.

But it’s the might that ensnares them
When the crows lift chains and the dogs pull levers
And the sun is hoisted yet again,
Massive little stage prop.

I’m told it was a mystery once,
That sun. The theater of the sun.

They consider leaving,
And a host of wasps build a nest in the rafters
While the wind presses the keys of the leaves
As musical as the purely lost visual, the true visual,
Might ever sound upon the drum of summer window screens.

The idle, unforced consideration of the narrow nut of consciousness.
A sneeze and a crust of yammering viral bits
Makes quick for the warmest parts.
The sun was a mystery once.

They consider leaving.

The sun was a mystery once.
The theater of the sun.