Are a calling cup
Filled with the dusty pulp
Of knowing
And yet, enlarged, not,
A glorious salve
To smooth out the proceedings
Where the loop just keeps repeating
Our ship cabin stay where
The Flintstones played 24/7
And forgeries hung on the walls
To make us happy
At all the sadnesses of life
In red and gold
And savage silver
As if all that glitters
Is not paper
And won't burn
In the rectory
Where lamps are turned
To inspect with prayer
What isn't there,
The mobius of opportunity
Morphed into the common weasel
Rasping after every final bite.
So the fashion models
Like all things pass,
Even this moment
Where the earth is just a runway
For the many worlds to playact
Untold ancient themes
With endless stellar races,
Like South Park said,
Protected under the veil
Of skeptic,
The impressionable child
Who never had the chance to wish
That what obsessed her head was as much
As a branch of the brush underneath,
A sprig of grass ... er, weed.
