Trouble is your raindrops. Your shadow is the sky. Loud noises dancing just below your eyes, but I have never dreamed of dancing with a steady hand. Your nose can smell the onions as the music seems to play. The blinking lights and butterflies. Or are we almost? As things are too close to your face, what if we remain? The stars connecting us. Just what we are.
But what is almost? The vague and imprecise descriptions of an envelope transparent to our frame of displayed minds? Just passing strangers into food for thought, for certainty, for love. So many faces turn about to be the gears. Uncertain that you’ll stay another butterfly. We are together to alter the relation between the great invention and the articles of butterflies. As we stand under the live band, somehow we just don’t know.
What is love? The machine learning against a brave new world. Appliances can be deceptive to the regalia of our odds and ends. Pressed up against your elbows and the edge of the world.
Hidden from the speed of the driven parts. Whenever there is empty space and people dancing. Out beyond the blobs of implements. Will you look out past your trouble, into noise? Extended hearings. The chopping sounds. Live bird sounds. The cries of onions breathing extermination on the kitchen cutting boards. Live music. Live action. You say imprecise is silence. You stay imprecise. Your heart of silence in the places in-between. Bits and pieces of the material world.
Sparkling delight is moments away from joy. The great machine is hungry, once again. Slabs of time are lowered into the boiling room in search of poetry. All they’ll ever find there is our hope, our dreams, our love. But I have never dreamed of dancing.
You toss the salt into the moment just beyond, before, unknown. To begin with balance, everything believes in what is beautiful. The whirring about faces of true dancers in a field of lost butterflies. The breath of fresh air as you walk out of a room. The things behind a river of trouble. A form that has learned how to sign an ocean full of waves. A low, continuous, regular sound. A motion of ceiling fans. A machine out of bird wings. The appliance of science or the process of bringing about something new.
You point out that nobody likes to talk about the status quo, that shaking is the rhythm of the ground, that shower curtains are unbalanced by a chance of rain. Just scrambling through a passing chance as sometimes rain. I sing into the distant waters, looking in a pace between the sights. You listen to the very sound of water. After all the humming stops. A piece of equipment designed to perform a specific task.
Your hands keep shaking all the waves beyond today. New waves from all the shorelines pass your names about. I would not have seen this by myself. Was it all the last result of living space? Your eyes take in the world and I fear.
Time and your performance walk along the ocean’s spray. So successfully entered as a statement of our times. Never looking up into the sky. You find the smell of birds circling over waterfalls. Tourists out of cardboard sheets. The boxes left behind to eat the rain. No furnishings in overlooks. A call from the machine. We are everywhere.
And when it rains Please Don’t Fish signs on your musical notes, or when you lose yourself beyond the walls. When everything is suddenly nothing. An equilibrium of equal toes. Nothing is more important than your hands. Nothing is the absence of all magnitude. Nothing is the words we speak.
For words might never be okay. The tapping of our images with gentle nudges, shapely elbows, shoulder pads. Some would have us believe in the very emotional, but a storm blows over what is mine. As articles of butterflies must turn the world into cheese.
Great bathtubs balance on the spinning of our talking points. Your legs keep kicking soap bubbles into shins. When we are alone when the water runs out, the stars shine through our fingertips. Unlock the vaults of heaven and Galileo’s skies. A galaxy of living names. The sun, the moon, the stars.
Sizes weigh heavy as we cry. The papers change direction as you hold tossed troubles to the fruits of love. We had no idea, but do you recall being wistful, maybe love? Tempered by the great machine. You are becoming what the ancients saw.
Our time grinds the over-ripened marching bands of memory into the fog of lines. Just working out beyond the brightest star. A liquid feeling perched on branches of dampened frequency. You look away from the advancing storm to see the dancing flames we left behind, but nothing should dampen our enthusiasm, because we are so small.
What is less than normal or usual, insignificant, unimportant? These are our lives. An even distribution of our weight enabling ourselves to remain upright and steady. An apparatus for weighing, especially one with a central pivot, beam, and a pair of scales. From symmetry to butterflies. You must reach for the stars.
A gift of acceptance out of cards. A kind of mourning for the butterflies. Your shower thoughts were never really in ballet. Letting your hair get tangled up in something new. A low hum of the ordinary crosses over you. The changing of the ghosts. The howling of the gears. The onions of the faces. A ring to disappear.
Simply put, the tables flip. Clicking noises from the great machine of time. Pulling levers not to halt your summersaults. No, I want to find a moment out of time. But I have never dreamed of dancing. Maybe butterflies. Very, extremely, singularly, peculiar. A new song, written especially for your great extent. But some things are too close to your face, what if we remain? The stars above, connecting us. Just what we are. Mainly, mostly, Butterflies.
Elan Radousky lives in California. When he isn’t reading, writing, eating, sleeping, or playing the xylophone, he can sometimes be found outside attempting to finally master five club juggling. He doesn’t actually play the xylophone, but he has on occasion dabbled at playing the xaphoon. His favorite color is blue, and he probably doesn’t know any secrets about you.