Past Tense

At the end of the day the light is bare and the muscles sore. I seem full of Antimony and my joints are rickety. The sky swallowed up the noise I made and now television tricks the air. There is no moment that plans unroll with their blue-lines arching cupolas and turrets. The rubble litters my porch. Moths, instead, drive the wind with cricket cheers and creaky steps to doors that shriek when opened. Paralysis is the code, the PIN to keep the bottles balanced on the rails. I hear a voice modulating the static and keep my head below the branch quivering its perch of runaway parrots. There is no—I stop at the no. Is no? Can this be the carousel, the braying pony? Is nothing just color? Its parallel is out of earshot. Besides, the voice is deaf, neither he nor she.  I guess it doesn’t matter, the knobs are all screwed off and the big green dials illumine bottle caps. Yep, that is the way the ballad soars, like a graph at a porno store. The work is trundled by marchers going the other way. I don’t know their names. They use them like crumbs to help the followers through. Cars on the roads pass each other and honk to scar the owls. I am full of pork chops and apple glaze.

I would say this is a prose poem Larry - why don't you move it to submit?  Some great descriptions here:  "the light is bare", "The sky swallowed up the noise I made", "Moths, instead, drive the wind" - well, I could go on, but you get the point.  Excellent - xo M