The Chaplain Floats Above The Canarys

With A WeedLess Lotto Bucket For BackYard Home-Schoolings,
The Hands From Under The Liveing Room Floor Push Up,
They Press Against The Feet Of Passing Relativeity,
Their Nicotine-Sepia'd Finger Nails Scratching As They Clasp Like Crab Fiddleings,
As The Drawing Of Another Number Can Be Heard Announced,
Coal Dust And Cutty Sark To Lie About Blood And Its Origins,
Those Hands Built The Lie From The Shoe Box Up,
With A BeFitting Hope That Man Be Of Certain DownFall From The Soap Boxed Lessons,
Leisure Be The Enemy To Such The Seam Of SilverBacks And The Swiss-Family ProtoTypes,
Dreaming Is Only Dreaming If There Is A Body To Come Home To...
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Other Fingers Reach InTo The ChildHood Barrel Roll,
Hooking InTo Plastic To Pull Up The Family Tree's Roots,
Each Of Those Links Claiming Rights Over My Body's Forgotten Birth,
StairCases Hidden From Christian Neighbors With ArachnePhobia...
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Animals Dressed In Stolen Humanity...
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They Raise Their Arms And Balance UpOn The Balls Of Their ForePaws,
Stretching Their Ticket-Teeth For Plankton In The Rattleing Of BreakFast Plates,
Captureing The Need For Assertive Heights Of  Co-Existance Above The Seated,
Patting Backs... Gripping Shoulders... Pulling At The Rubber Where Life Lives Not,
Knowing That Life Lives Not To Give To That Vulture'd MountainSide,
Nor To A Beggar's Bend At The End Of A Drifting Sleep Down Any River,
Pyres For The Swan Songs Of Liers Loveing The Burning Of Effigys To Cleanse
Coal From The Skin... The Ship Out From The Bottle...
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One By One They Look At EachOther... As If Pauseing In The Excavation...
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They Know Of Being The One... As Well As Being The Hole...
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That It Feeds ItSelf To Be.