The Enigma And The Rube

when all the bells have toppled silence and on the breeze rides a summer of stammering stunnery the likes of the color blue on stilts 
snagged in the sun’s corona.
like a fish on a hook of sunshine, thought he saw a worm of real life
but got caught in the vaporous torrent of his weakness.
savoring the dawn like a mushroom mottled in fresh dew
twinkling in the circus of  fecundity where the thrum of glory
spoils the view of a curmudgeon and marches on into destiny’s bosom
in the clutches of our habits and rabidly
living the dream that’s killing us.

how real can it get?

and is that real enough?