Autumn Oracle

                                
                                   
                            Adolescent schoolboy with subtle winds upon his elementary shoulders; how hazily the winter sun blares on his black-Velcro backpack, hurriedly strolling up lulled residential avenues of late-October. A lazy slumbering forenoon; it is the lackadaisical hunting season of stoic middle-aged men in worn shirtsleeves; hungover postal-workers stumble along cement neighborhood walkways, sweating out  last-night escapades of generic-vodka-bottle delirium, handing out mundane social security revenue-checks to senile elderly women in row-houses and legless-Vietnam vets amid sullen wheel-chair vestibules. A glowering television hall-lamp bleeds lemon-yellow beads below calm domestic corridors. A crimson carpeted landing unravels beyond a brass-rimmed staircase mantel. Bourgeois in essence, a poignant perfume odor permeates out through kitchen screen-doors; onto unkempt backyard foliage heaps. Moonlit dream-hours hush and dwindle amidst bedroom candlelight shadowing. A rhetoric hush arises from walk-in closet catacombs. Mother's lavender hair-brush retrieval evenings; raven black window trees rustle through nostalgia's unanswered questioning.
                              Lovers of great maple passageways, forlorn autumn forest of dank silken imagery overshadows late midnight maelstroms of romanticized reckoning. Our forsaken ancestors rested humbly in reclined lawn chairs along these auburn courtyards; reciting lustful hymns of forgotten poetry and vulnerable flesh anthems. An abandoned family-tree basilica of rotted oak bark and brown seething cedar. Radiant flames ascend then pierce the frail night-sky horizon; burnt piles of dried crumbling leafs and loose-leaf paper manuscripts.        
                                  We are sacred: of the earth and its deceitful pleasure: of
                                  the bewildering awe of a mortal flesh magnitude.
                         
                                Run-on routine workdays kept by an underpaid Cantonese housekeeper. Vacuuming in the unalterable silence of a windswept Sunday. Post-cathedral footsteps linger down marble mezzanine stairways: Feline football sofa cushioning; Varnished coffee-table alignment evenings spread out amongst spacious living-room hallways; we somehow co-exist through the casual monotony of workplace business-call intervals; how we panic at nothingness while it defecates upon us, captivating our beaten senses in its subdued presence. A dejavu machinery landscape; lucid daylight descends down upon vast bucolic pastures from an ultraviolet afternoon heaven.
                                   
                                            ( from a 3rd story window balcony) 
                           Porcelain dummies crowd a revolving town's epicenter. Taxi-cab traffic signaling natives; Fine-dine wine glass restaurants allude to an unmaintained glorification of a working-class peasantry hero's obituary:
                   To dream is to sleep and nothing more and
                    nothing more
                                is to
                                      die.