Peace, Like an Elvis Sighting

from 2007-this is not about you. this is about peace.

Your roots are still waiting to be churned out of earthworms unborn
as the branches are stripped, again and again, of mid-summer leaves
to splint broken wings of flightless doves. Brittle twigs now hinder
the mending gifts of Spring’s natural rewards.
 
Lincoln logs, where are you now?
 
This postcard is tinting, omega tan.

I’m left beached, to pencil in the mirages
of habeas corpus fortresses.
Skeletal umbrellas fade, in mocking muddy yellow
sunsets played out of hand and into the fires
of judgment’s slayings and malevolence gaining.

Gaea throws her fits like hard dice on the coasts
And the odds beat some of us down.
Takes the shirts off their backs.
Her aims a little off… should take her A-game to the north.
That's what I heard some of the survivor fans say.
A washing, of tons of marbled mantles, dousing the hearths
of those wealthy vandals. Don’t they see the cowabunga pony-tail
Ridin that killer wave? Hang-10 broheims...hang ten.

You're an analytical heathen on the work farm.
The brain sizzled by the surfboard sun and
failing to grasp the idle handles of mental harvest scythes.
John Deere shrugs at you. He knows you’re an idiot too.
You couldn’t sprout a weed by accident if you had tomatoes
and alfalfa sprouts in your avocado salad,
then regurgitated your pacifist-hatemonger lunch
into a methane mulch pit on a hog farm
in the hollows where the banjos still play
just because they can.

I’m marching to battles with brick-laying trowels and smooth-
handled shovels, to bury the stench under a mountain of mulch
feeding jungles of thick pungent basil and olympic sun flowers
pushed to my fences where the ivies are striving to reach to the sun
in a tangle and mangle of red runner beans, so teeming
with anole, mantis and bees.

These elephant ears stand 7 feet tall,
and keep me apprised of the mid-summer weeds
laying in root with their staggering forward
progresses, inching in the veins of eternal kudzu.

While I encourage nature to manifest with man-made fibers
in the flapping 45mph tatters of an aging rag-top, you condemn the world
to evolution’s industrial follies, gore(D) by the bull horns,
branded and stranded in a poverty of diapers and dime bags and after-thought condoms on your dial-up merry-go-round of cannibalistic dinosaur theories
falling short of credentials in light of the science that walks hand in hand
with your heat-sensitive mickey-mouse wrist watch.

Your polls are conceived in a test pattern that
knows every color in the 64 pack box, and just which tones to stress
on our conditioned leather palates and cardboard canvasses
and a bum will say anything on Corrugation Row, if you remind them with portraits
of presidential liberties to remain skunked in the gutter.

All they need is the right publisher.



Secret agents wait for you in lobbies and wireless windows
and in the maize where crows are feeding on your bounties.
Your Vatican tongue is chatty, but keeping in step
with the anonymous rank and file of un-nations.
You’re an over-washed bill ; serial killer, out of circulation.
You’re the beachwear shop that somehow stays open
in the dead of winter and the compromise of boxers
over briefs in a superstore aisle, with cautious glances
in the parking lot, like a rock.
You’re ramming a shopping cart straight into the grill of that f*****g Volvo.
While the chaos thrives you spread the damage like broken butter.
I’m churning my own, and lathering it evenly on lembas bread.
I’ve stepped over the lap-dog puddles in cracked botox sidewalks,
past the borders' brick protections to a nobler place
to tread on the blanched and dewy fescue
to sharpen this edge on smooth curves of statue stone,
guarding the lawn of a library.

This will be my Alamo…
of momentary durations.