During the time of peacock failures
and soggy plums, a tantric wind
came a-hummin’ through the ‘burbs.
Faces lit like midday fireworks.
Skins were packed with lumps.
I was busy bumping and grinding
my way to a doctorate in decor,
but I heard this third-hand,
that the streets were marble lather,
that a gathering of the minds was taking place,
taking up space in a parking garage.
Some among them maintained
that all hitherto existing fiction
was as spilled milk upon a china plate
in the wake of this event. Others
gnawed on toadstools just to keep
from going mad. Meanwhile,
the wind kept a-buzzin’ and breaking
up the peace of the humdrum scene
we’d come to refer to as a Home.
Honestly, home didn’t stand a chance.
So the dance persists…