Suburban Mindmelt

Suburban Mindmelt You and I know what it takes to make the sky turn around. We still know when to stop in our tracks, To look and smell and pause; we must, if we can, For we are sad souls in a suburban mindmelt; We know the numbers but not the rules of return. We must daily continue on and go our wearisome ways, Opening metal doors to various offices, Housed with experts we pay to rid our lives of the various afflictions and maladies, Acquired in divers ways, during esoteric transactions, Privately and publicly exchanged, apportioned properly and lawfully, before dinners in dark dives, with candle-lit apparitions traipsing on the walls, and ketchup bottles jostling in the middle of large tables. We have seen the stars, mad as dancers twirling sur les pointes in the dark. We have seen them startle us with their consistent placements and positions. We have heard the stoned sounds of a multitude of vibrating cymbals, Slicing the suburban mindmelt, with the notes of mayhem, madness and redemption. You and I now know what it takes to lock a door and turn out a light, just before midnight, When the earth demons go on the prowl for lost faces and young sadness. We know what it takes to change a record, or the sound of our voices at noon. Be quiet as you speak when it is midday, for the fishmonger and his boy have big ears. Be still and do not breathe. You and I know what it takes to make the sky turn around, For we are sad souls in a suburban mindmelt; We know the numbers, but not the rules of return.