Everyday Majestic Musings

Pareidolia, in this place,
made from metal stars and pipes.
If I told ya' it's a face,
you'd agree that I am right.
How we see it, who can say.
Maybe it's a trick of light.

or Maybe our brains work this way
to Dodge the wall man's slanted bite.

Hidden microscopic bugs
eating holes in all the leaves.
I hope they don't invade my hugs
and give me itchy tickly sleeves.

Does the plant mind, do you think,
that it's riddled full of dots?
Or does it yearn for insect friends
and know the bugs must love it lots?

Metal cat, metal cat, 
what the heck you staring at
perched high up the 'lectric pole
in a fetching turquoise stole?

Trees behind you show right through 
your body made of curlicues.
I wish you looked down at the street 
I like your face more than your feet.

Near South and Broad there is a wall
of Mural Arts causation.
A lion's face, a drill, a clock,
a scroll of divination.

The I Ching runs behind a wheel
and passersby can reach and spin
to let the future unconceal
the best way for them to begin.

We stop, we read, we make our bets
about which guidance we'll each get.
I spin it thrice, and, at the mark,
I hit the night, the hat, the dark.

Come learn about economics,
gender norms, and microphonics,
books, zines, wires, and anarchy.

Not questionable, Iffy.

Call whomever, share the glee,
their payphone says, laconically,
projecting generosity:

"Donations only. All calls free."