Poetry Is the Fantasy - (And the Lunacy?) of Life

Once upon a fantasy- of meat and potatoes and gravy I closed my eyes- and saw a memory. (but opened them again to watch TV.) Poetry can be whatever you want it to be except a definition in a dictionary. Poetry can be found in the twinkling of an eye after eating that whole 10,000 calorie pie! Poetry is our theory of reality. (the idyllic schematic of the way things ought to be) seen through the painted windows of memories. (in this poem they’re called hallucinomeries) Where streams had fish that ate your worms and roads had forks that ate your dreams when you were just a tiny tadpole trying to solve a Rubic’s cube. Poetry leaves its indelible stains of dejavu ripping through your veins. Hidden deep in an outer protective layer of mazes holograms and typing paper. Or poetry can simply be- anything older than BigBangology! So when the eclipse blots out the moon and sun clocks lean backwards and monkeys chew gum, it’s time to take a huge breath of wonderful city air and watch your rhythmicalical poetry disappear- like an enigma wrapped in a riddle that has run away and hid. (which is what this poem just did) And when the Night Thoughts reign supreme and reality WRIghTES its final dream us part-time astronomers- can go back to being part-time fantasy farmers.