------------

Ink-Dance

 ...and pens do their ink-dance upon the wood-fibers.

I see it swirling in scribbly-motion over the world's notebooks to record the inner-thinkings of apes who learned to walk on two legs, drive clunky metal pill-boxes and put things into the air that should not be put into the air.

But they have been to the moon

in a larger, clunkier pill-box,

shot with fire-burst and burn-fuel

and have returned to write about it, to

dance the pen-dance upon wood-fibers

and tell the world of their acomplishments.

This is why the '80s were awesome.

Requiem for a Banana

              Bananas, golden and resplendant in the morning sun, smiled down from atop the refigerator. Their banana-arcs rose and fell majestically in unison, shining in the sunlight and bearing stickers for the children.  They came from a far-off place south of the Equator, on a boat heavily-laden with other bananas heading out to distant shores.  They stayed for a long time, smiling their bright yellow banana-smiles from above.  I often look to where the bananas once were, and remember the majestic rise and fall of golden yellow banana-arcs shining in the sunlight.