everyday is a festival where someone is always cremating a demon

if you sit still enough
there will be a handful of maracas and djembes
to shake you behind a conga tree
entrain your heart to beat in between seams
sewn as sheets of sound within me
boom and clang can circle round
and hollow melodies found to embody the things
in the habit of emerging from the ground
recognizing that underneath a microscope
our veins might be knit together seeing
that blood moves centripetal this way
and to be perforated with 32 arms akimbo and radiating
looking something like an occasion
to which you may invite your mother and bring a drum
someone who resembles the madhatter
and sits on bulging roots at the base of the tree
swigs from a crinkled paper sack intermittently offers a whistle

vow to come every Sunday as you recognize old people who resemble aged versions of everyone you know.
like the one who looks like an extra man
with a pink backpack slung over his right shoulder
legitimizing the swagger in his gait
and the baby girl jounces along
which explains the waggle in his walk

the extra old stand on the walk
wearing all white tennis shoes curtain skirts definitive hats
starch and bold and bald and the flow surges by default
everyone belongs and the asian with drumsticks and mother and the man with a laundry cart and all wood barrels make sounds with beads and rope draped and off the sides and tied on like a hauling bump and shack and stars of david and frankincense with whistles and saxophone the resonant force of going. some stop

on the path with basketballs or the curiosity of an archaeologist picking twigs what remnants from the trees and smoke and dancing happens on resting leaves
there’s a reason for boots beanies and beards and repetition and interruption