The Busy World is Perfectly Happy

to continue to crumble its way through

another grinding cycle of slowly

walking to the edge of the universe 

ancient treelike beings, like gentle ghost buffalo, and our

own thundering buildings by the hundreds of thousands, 

pollen encrusted cars and crisp new blue 

butterflies all stuck together like new

one dollar bills, the poor disappearing

elephant families, invisible 

jet airplanes, bouncing balls and barking dogs,

weddings and bicycle crashes, soft rain

soaking the neatly pressed pants of a young

man with a bunch of gently paper clasped 

daisies in his hand and a quick hot sun

primping the brim of the little straw hat

of the young lady who although standing

only as tall as a full rose bush still

dislikes wearing yellow sundresses and wants

more than anything else to play catch with

the dirty brown sparrows in the park one

day, you see, perfectly willing to blend

all the so-called rules together for a

wafting funny feeling smell of hotdogs

and homemade chili, a bit of homey

encrusted cheese stuffs from England of all

places, but back we all go at once to the

tiresome basics again, let's just say at 

another tall museum of waxing 

family members, two by two then, the

plastic statues of dead atheletes who

became the frames for stars to hang themselves

upon and the concrete frisbees of a 

new commerce, oh my, we'd better go right

back to work ourselves before the three plump 

oceans become crazily unbalanced

upon our own wobbly heads like a basket

of jumping cherries, one, two, three, walls and

bridges (look it up). Finally, to our

own work at hand which it would appear has

come full circle again. We have the right to start

again, to believe again, to want more.