Mustache-Mask

A Runt Raised From A Milk-Crate's Curdled Drippings ,
With His Associate From Some Fraternal LumberYard,
Arrived InConspiciously To Aggravate And Stir,
Mustache-Masked And Wrinkled Chunk-Faced... Such The GentleMan And His Sir,
Chivalry And Its Chevaliers As If On Call From Cervantes,
Though Questionable In A Change Of Wardrobe... MayBe As George And Lenny...
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May Be By The Work Of Twain... Their Migration Through Depression Could Lead Their
Bare Feet To Those Proud Marys And CrawDaddys,
Running As Fugitives Through Acres Of Spring Wheat,
To Smoke-Houses And Steam-Baths,
Card Sharks Tilt Their Heads... Slightly... To The Echoing Draft Of Future Tense,
The Two Roost From UpOn Top Bunks... In A Room With The Truly HomeLess,
Promiseing One More Week Of Stay...
...
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Till Then... A Tale Epic Through Its Gandering!
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One Has Come In Search Of A Golden Organ,
'Fore Harps Can Be Plucked And Loosed,
He Has The Passionate Charity Of A "Sister",
When All Else Be UnPheasantly Goose'd...
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Seeking The Slumber Of Pasture So PeaceFull,
No Wolf Can Lie In Wait,
Speaking Soft To All Stone-Hearted,
Bringing Calmness For His Bait...
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The Other Be In Turmoil,
Needing Silver For His Lung,
He Closes Open Shutters,
And Bangs On E'ry Rung...
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When At Time It Is For BreakFast,
He Shines Like Children Do,
Chaseing RainBows From The Windows,
And Knocking E'ry Shoe...
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They Both Will Leave UpOn The Day,
Their Mission Done Or Naught,
For Their Golden Organ To Be Chalice'd,
Or To Their Chapel Be It Brought.

Rolling Pigeons Towards Collapseing Turtled Gloves

The Arguement Soaks Through The Filter,
Through The Membrane...Through The Electric Channels,
It Drips Out Through The Holes Like Hamburger Through A Meat-Grinder,
Through And Through...
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Through... And Through...
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InTo The Hungry Ear Starveing For Daily ConFlict,
EveryBody Has An Ear Like That...
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MayBe It Is Your Left... Perhaps... It Is Your Right...
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It Devours Those Scratchy Static Runes As A Casino Table Would To Dice,
Hopeing For The Code Of Gods To Reveal Their Little Etched Order,
SomeTimes To Tumble From Cups...
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InTo The HereSay... Palms Sweeping ACross Sweating Brows...
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The Skins Of Gamblers Are Brought To The Wire... Still Wet...
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To Be Stretched And Pinned... Then Drummed For The RimShot
InTo Echoing Stillness,
Above The Green Felt And Perched ReServeations,
Then InTo The Clicking Of Teeth...
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Or Through The Whistleing Of Others...
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To The Rough... Then Tacked Smooth.