Everyday Majestic Musings

A miniature sculptor
of moderate size,
of entomic dresses
and floral thigh-highs,
of possums and blossoms,
communing raccoons,
and curated shades of
purples and maroons.
And off in the corner
under picture frames
her husband is working 
'til time for boardgames.

A cool summer evening on top of the hill,
we sit in their condo and quietly chill.
Tip-tapping of fingers, the scratch of my pen,
a peacefulness lingers among us, and then
she offers me chocolate with hazelnut bits
and gathers her laptop and blanket and sits
on the other sofa with her cup of tea,
and says, 😫 "Too much liquid! Now I have to pee!"

And each exposed surface is covered in bugs.
There are bugs in the windows
and bugs on the rugs
and bugs on the shelves
and bugs on the wall
and bugs in the stairwell
and bugs in the hall
and bugs in glass cases
and bugs on the floor
and, let's not forget,
there are bugs on the door
and bugs on the spoons
and bugs on the mugs
and bugs wearing costumes
and bugs giving hugs.

And twining vines line every wall of the room,
with bats, skulls, and ravens like a gothy tomb,
and fabulous fabrics fresh from her dad's loom,
and crêpe paper flowers in permanent bloom

where packed cozy comfort leaves no space for gloom.

Dainty mushrooms keep growing in my sage.
Slim stalks come of age, rampage, wage war across a soiled stage.

I pull them out but they just...come right back.
Baby umbrellas bushwhack, toxic non-snacks counter-attack.

Each day I spot more and pluck them gently.
Consequently they rise, intently, but placed differently.

Movement makes me think they spawn from below.
Tendrils grow, burrow, first slow then whoa, to fruit a white chapeau.

Maybe I should water the planter less?
I guess, if pressed, I should decompress, suppress stress, and assess.

Old friend has a feed reader he wrote himself
that he runs to read these, not one off the shelf.
He says that my choice of dates is problematic;
"unix epoch plus `i` days", too acrobatic.
He doesn't get signals for posts in the past,
so no entry updates until I've amassed
a series of poems a thousand times twenty.
But only by cheating could I reach that many,
so, what if, instead, I change the dating scheme
to be in the future but with the same theme?
It certainly works, but, he laughs with concern,
"That plan sounds like you want to watch the world burn."

At seamarket there is a stall
I visit every time.
The woman sells this jerkied pork
with garlic, pepper, fish, and lime.

The listed price is 35
per pound of belly meat
that has been sliced, seasoned, and fried,
and dried into a crispy treat.

She reaches in a hulking bin
and scoops onto a scale
a mound of meaty mortal sin,
and then her son completes the sale.

I like to keep it icy cold
to add some extra crunch
that amplifies the joy tenfold
and turns it from a snack to lunch.

Little golden naked man,
reaching out his empty hand,
palm turned up, looks like he's begging
for a pair of winter leggings.

Details make him appear frigid:
penis shrunken, nipples rigid,
arms are stiffened, legs are too.
Probably his skin's gone blue.

Won't you save him from distress,
keep him from frost's chill caress,
undo/redress cold undress?
God bless, I guess.