No Production

The organization is lost in me; the worker-elves have left to summer

No production in the sleeping hours of waking with fresh footwear

The leather and thread is left on the shelf unaltered

The morning is cold; no point in setting the heater  

No one else sleeps in this house, rooms of boxes and conversations

Privy and not, frightened by all the dialogue that no one else hears

The crimson walls and curtains, intentions hung and colors blended

With the nomenclature as if the pattern could ever speak the same language 

Burn the dreams down, huddle the sticks and melt the crowns

Of yesterday’s promises and mainstays, doubt-drenched skulls

Seen the midnight dancing and the darkness came out

Flooded and spoken, sawed in half and still limping broken  

Coworkers muddle talk about cows, the degree on the wall

Costumes and nouns about production meaningless iterations

Year after year soaked in a decade of nothingness smeared

Like a sail cloth riddled with holes, latched up the mast  

And the world is so bold, to say you can be, you can go

Wherever your dreams do fill, imagine the love and the greetings

Of islands of bees, buzzing in hives pollinating the archives

Of germinating permaculture melting in the crucibles of oversight  

Seeing the wings gone by morning in the oceans of pesticide

Keep waking up with coughs, disease shakes the core

My abdomen crunched in the compartment as if every night sleeping in a foxhole

The bullets of quiet combat the invisible riot  

Want to run right out the front door into on-coming traffic

And my daughter came up to me and said,

“Then the eye came and said, “Do you know where Frodo is?”

Question mark always on a journey battles with what we can bear  

Staying here, she is old enough to know about some of the monsters of the world

Permission to leave and trying to stitch the sail

The brain-cancer salesmen, the equestrian of Magazine Street, the slave-holders of tax

Knowing time is the only crucible and in it there is only now