|
paste!
|
dread says to herself “lick my toes”
and bewilderment replies “not my bag”
then the sheriff walks into town on a horse.
on Sundays, it becomes an 8-story wildfire
the raisins and the revolutions, wide-eyes
in a bag of potatoes and a marksman.
a stickler semblance of Rastafarian that knows
when to pipe up and lay down the slag
and turn out pigeons on the fresh yellow course
being habit, a nautical diet pus lyre
dangling from the deadbolt of bad mystery spies
and emerging from pre-gravity with a snappy tan.
just lost a wager on the boulevard near Moe’s
Palace of Greasy Wares; where the dogs wag
for a good seventeen days per month, sparse,
sedated, feeling out the humps, Siamese desire
or not, absolute tanks rupture to realize
the widgets have been spitting out the ban
on carousel thoughts and so lift all bows
to the 45 to launch projectiles into a crag
that second guesses the itchy hearse
of functionality, twitchy middle finger, wire
or wax, spins without that 5-pointed disguise
that you harness in smashing a doll from Japan.
the wildflower spackle from Oxford grows
after it’s purchased. And vests, ripe, unshag
some news about apricots and in her purse
is the vortex; the sake of numerals is slyer
this time than a cortisone shot after you rise
from clutches of a bear that drank from your can.
|
021123
|
