Friday Baker’s Dozen EX.

Neither reality nor vacuum
get that destined to be trodden
worn out sickening the metaphor.
Some pass by glances
at the slow-spinning triangle
about some stretching circumferences,
A sort of watching, other than flies.
Being over flooded with popcorn, hardly
through countable leaks
rise as thin as thread
“Mercy, Enuma Elish!”
No vacancy for complains, except
for a living room table
circled around by the base of the same cone.
No ups nor downs to address an assumed transparency
behind airs, calling for common sense balance.
One by one, it’s up to any morning star or pixel
to wave, salute, or praise their
ancestors, unborn children,
hands they shake,
Or remember well
From a claimed first beat.
Many of masters should one serve
in a basement stage,
not to intervene in-between
Becoming and Evolution
where Love is the only elevator.