where "The Book of Where" is

 

"Exposed Roots"

“where “The Book of Where” is”

 

in this garden

where pixie boroughs lead

to pink frosting hideaways

with delectable walls

mouthwatering windows and irresistibly crunchy panes

 

where for the bounce of it

the satisfaction of the pop

sprites ride champagne bubbles well past the eleventh hour

 

where gated gnome communities boast portals to parallel universes

freshly plucked from oblivious pick pocketing trolls entranced

by reruns of The Price is Right

 

where angels sing sultry songs serenading sirens into surrender

until they hesitantly unfurl their pure silver glittering wings and are

coaxed into singing back up

(doo- wop never sounded so sweet)

 

where fairy labyrinths are cloaked in dazzling rumors

spread thickly by the jam loving fairies themselves

just for the fun of it

for the intrigue

for the sticky mystique

for the stirring of the eye popping primordial mix

 

there is in this garden

deeply buried beneath the palm, between the roots

an ancient tome, forgotten by both

humans and magical creatures alike

 

as old as time itself

with its binding good as new

translucent onion skin pages for turning

fantastically fictional farce to fact

for a mindless spell

casting life into death

the one into many

too many chapters to count

 

such a story never there was

the ever ending story which never ends

the desperately ever after

the perpetually penned and then

 

forgotten

 

buried deep beneath the palm, between the roots

its pages of babel in invisible, indelible bleeding ink

no amount of hand washing will ever take it out, poor protagonist

for this wildly whacked word weaving is meant solely to

ensnare and enrapt, it is

the tale that keeps on taking

all readily given belief

all thoughts spent imagining it to be the end all be all are

its author

 

as it is written, it need not be read

 

the humans first paved the path of forgetfulness

members of the magical kingdom followed shortly thereafter

lost in their follies of past begets future

no one noticed

as The Book of Where slipped away and buried itself alive

 

in this garden

 

the book and its twisting tales will perish at last

the instant it is unearthed to be

read by one who recognizes fiction

for what it is

and in remembering what it isn’t

casts the anti-spell

awakening the wholly fearful ghost writer

returning the many to one

with a laugh