Requiem for a Dying Star

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Namaste everyone! So I thought I would paste on something a little different this go-round. A smattering from the flourish of thoughts one grasps out of the swirling vastness that is India. Peace.

Requiem for a Dying Star

Why do Americans have lawns?
Should they despise walking from porch or stoop to Chevy or mailbox
on weed or soil?
Must that void between abode and avenue be filled−or
could the distance lie bare like the pitchy trail of aphelion?
Feign feral!
If a moat be dug then of course swamp the ditch turbid.
Sneering crocodiles sliding under brambles like rusty fishhooks.
It is perfectly possible to fall hard
in love in a panic.
A treasure hunt is greatest just before it is found.
Then it becomes treasure, then an itinerary of the past
swallowed like satellites of red giants.
Letter carrier, luggage courier, coffer lorry,
flowers must bloom if they are to wilt.
Two story tellers wrap like licorice on an elfin finger.
Now all that remains is a miasma of gray smoke curling with the night.
Before this, a shower of sanguine and gold sparks blinking resplendent
for the crowds, the moon, the fish, and the scattering pigeons.
Before this, a box of powder with a skull.
Love is aperiodic.
It must have two poles or else it quickens like lightening
ramifying from rod to tower to woolen cloud.
Positively−negative.
Some story tellers fill their lung gaps with soot
like Americans and their sprinkled lawns.
Some stand under the waterfall at half flow, in the half light,
holding a half broken glass haphazardly.
They toast to florid piles of crumpled wrapping paper
amongst cinnamon sticks and loosened needles.
Lumps of umbrellas march down damp streets:
On sidewalks, the patrons linger bleary-eyed.
Out back, musicians’ fingertips steady around filters.
Thrumming droplets drown the humming din of an encore,
just one more.
Once from the color oblivion in a clown’s dimple,
this silk scarf sways in a gutter−caught
on bits of brittle blue pottery. Now just a rag,
a-frayed to
the end.

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