Prospect Purple Rose

A last quarter of a ravished pint of ben & jerry's, chewed beyond flavor, rennet and milky, put back in the freezer for tomorrow or a few hours from now. Too light! Too light, the mocking carton burns with once and twice. Things unfinished snarl through the deep mulberry bushes lining the path. Things unstarted follow along and nip at the heels. Dark vines curl down from the canopy and drop their ripe wet plums on the drumhead of tangentialism. A taste like a disembodied wave pushed through the straw of a scallion. The beer you never wanted, the easy path. A lithe and lovely porridge-burn turns up the static all around, crowds out a place to attack from, crowds out the lemonade spring, crowds out the real opportunity of the night, crowds out the fevered dream of a madman, crowds out arsenic and copper fillings, crowds out mulchy rotting tree trunks, crowds out dusty water bottle, crowds out the resin hit you never wanted, crowds out the colors besides purple, crowds out feeling good enough, crowds out music, crowds out mulch, crowds out misty morning mushrooms.

The static you never wanted opens the door for the guests you never wanted bring in the beer you never wanted lays down the static you never wanted.

The wine always swirls clockwise, the glass rotates counter. That's the way we get by, way we get by, the way we get by. The long silence you never wanted, always wanted, never wanted. The firey vines hanging down curling up hanging down over the path. The perfect fall day you never wanted lays on the static and the broadcast never gets through. The piquant marble cake broadcast never gets through. The first honest words never get through. The purity of spirit never gets through. The moroccan cinnamons never get through, the bitter almond never gets through, the bright words of metaphor never get through, the proud longings never get through, the discouragement never gets through, the decompression never gets through, the delivery never gets delivered.

The long silence you always wanted lets everything through, the dangled bunch of bait flowers, the secret of the vanilla podules, the million years of settling in, the million years of growth, the million years of symbiotic growth, the million kinds of potency, the million men of yeast, the millions of millions.

The stasis you never wanted is static. The present you never wanted crowds out the future. There is only the deadly long finish crowding out the static even, crowding out the beginning, reprising the earliest themes, the first motes, the most helpless.

Varietals: Command, water rights, greenbacks
Food Pairing: Turn the spit on that pig, kick the drum and let me down. Put my clarinet beneath your bed til I get back in town.