In the Name of Flippancy

wrote this a week ago, after a certain occurence.
That one line, yes, that one...the funny guy said that.



This is how it starts.

Spring
and the butterflies don't know what to do
with all that nectar.
Springtime
and the mountains are in bloom
like they shouldn't be:
Edelweiss, Edelweiss
snowy apparitions in the velvet-vomitting
sky.
Spring
and the children are dancing,
chanting, howling to the blue moon
and the parochial stars;
"wrinkle, wrinkle [iron out the scars.]"

This is when it starts [to end.]

In sleep,
the people dream that atmosphere
is actually ocean and constellations are
schools of fish -- shimmering, sashaying,
shooting.
In wonder,
the world falls in to slumber
murky as a grotto: dismal dreams
and parting thunder.
In Tahoe,
there is winter, and there is July,
and somewhere in between
the flowers bloom, seed,
and die;
transitions are a risky business
- earth into sky, tautology into taciturn,
water into wine.

This is when it ends.

Winter and wind-turbines;
women and weeping;
whispers and watsonia.
Wrinkles in a water-scope.
Oh, what a lovely paradox.