Above My Head

Above my head, foliage, and feathers clatter as a hawk tangles with a squirrel. Above my head, Russian tanks pop their tops in boggling bubbles. Just above a bald patch, shaggy clouds squat to piddle. I am heads above those below, the silver slick worms hardly notice as I thread through the less grassy and bare. Mind-hairs are a real thing, mine wave their thin tentacles like fishing sea anemones, they snack upon the overheard overhead; ripple gently in the whisking winds. A highbrow gets above itself, stutters as it utters. I wear the headgear of long dead heroes, they ride my scalp, baseball bats wave there whacks, ultra-maga veterans of foreign wars salute my stiff necked, heads-up pose. There's a world of wonders down under, but just above my head, that's where dandruff ponders its flaky notions, and all high-flown conundrums learn to fly.