Pale Rodents

Some Pale Rodents Pick A Color And A Finger,
A Prayer To Mary Queen Of Cottage Cheese,
And Then... They Are Off...!
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Takeing The Inner Lane,
Passing... Rumbleing Snorting... Digging InTo The Tread,
Chaseing The Outer Line That Fades The Mane,
Magnetized InTo A Tribal Jungle Beat Of HorseShoe Gymnasiums,
Never Late For The Last Bend Of The Zipper-Bunny's Tease,
For The Cotton-Tail And Podium Morrow...
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One More Dive InTo The Dish,
Shallow And On A ReBreather,
The Honking Of Cab-Drivers And Finite Math,
Minuscule Metropolis With Robots For HouseWives,
Water Runs Off Their Chins In Tiny Droplets To Rain Purity UpOn Poorer Districts,
Tilting Heads In The Canine Empire...
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Wolves Had Packs In The BoonDocks,
Where Rats Needed A Structure To Twist Tongues,
Knotted At The Mooring For Liberty And For A Deity Of Mental Health,
To Arrive InTo A Fatherly Womb In Droves To Be Assimilated InTo A Bleached Chorus,
Silent Lucid City Folk Leading The New World InTo The Old Country,
Through Prismatic Choreography And Gentlemen Bets,
Knicks Off The Slugger And Chips Off The Tooth...
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These Days,Some People Will Pay AnyThing For A Funeral... A Motherly Tomb...
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Kings Are Made At The Shoveling Of Dirt,
The Jokes Are Laid ASide For Small Talk In The Office Elevator,
Just Before Approaching The Water Bottle And Kitchenette,
To Fight Over Jam Jars And Cheese Slices,
Golden Ringed Lemurs Throwing Nuts At Tourists Twenty Miles Down...
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The Bonding Agent Of Social Integrity In Co-Relation To Preening Morality,
Engineering A Structure Of Compromised Hands And Civilized Bakerys,
Rapping Knuckles And Ensureing Longevity Of The Program,
An Old Boy With An Old Dog And An Old Pair Of Slippers...
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Sweating Baby-Boomed Discipline InTo The UnSatiable-Platonic BedRock,
For Incarnations Of Ponce De León To Drill InTo And Market To Massage Parlors,
UnLess The Mechanics Of Man Call For Second-Hand Car Parks And Collision Repair,
Those Asian Beautys Poseing So Sweetly Beside Groomed Shovels Of Loathing Grace.

I Am An Old Scratch

I Am A FacetLess Soul Of Assumptions,
Forgetting The Broken Fence,
By A Crippled Cold Bridge,
Rotting Soft Wormed Wood,
And That OverTurned Pitch Black Fork In The Road,
My Name Could Be An Old Scratch...
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Heavy Killing To Lift The Air For Breeding,
Acres Of Familyar Terrain For Following Minute Irritations...
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This Way Comes...
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Distractions And Pretense,
Assertions In My FingerTips To ReWind,
Then To ReLight The Charcoal And Ignore Tantalus...
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Thirsty Birds And My 13 Scars,
I Can Twist The Wrist To Settle The Difference?
Show The City What Shadow I Might Nail UpOn The Wall,
Let It Bleed Back Down To That FloorBoard's Beat,
Wear My Shoes To Bed...
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Make My Way To The Falling Of Rain,
And MayBe Carve My Initials With A Pen-Knife From This Life's Language
InTo A Pillar Of Thought...
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I Be LoneSome But Never A Fool... Nor A Flood,
I Can Still Wink And Grin... I Can Wash My Hands And EveryThing...
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Tartarus Never Sleeps.

The Breeze And Sugar By The Almanac's Forgotten Gates

If Every Soggy Optimist Be An Optometrist,
Then Every Man's Eye Would Be A Land,
A Crown Property Staked Through By The Pound And Kennel,
With Every Bite Wizened Against The Jerking Strop,
To Sharpen And Polish The Flinching Blur,
And Settle The Charts For An Easy See,
As Age Could Define A Spine For Its Crook,
Laboring Beside The Horse's Heir For Nativity,
As Gulliver Be Dub'd A "Livingston"...
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An Honorary Title, I Presume...
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For The Hooks And Chords To Lead And Bind,
UnNerveingly Through One's Field Of Vision,
Patiently Smug In Patent Weathers For The Freeze Framed,
Jack-Rabbit Punch Buggy... Coughing Out Expletives And Spitting With The Salt Flats,
Gideons In Their Invisible Hospitals... Cushions For Cheating SalesMen...
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Arrangements Of Clay Jars On The Rush For Gold Fillings,
Royally Filled With CareFull Orchestrations...
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Dust... Tears... Saliva...
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All Is Secured By Tipping The Scales WithIn A Happy Dream Of Rulers,
As Its Optimists Turn Life's Fogs InSide Out,
A Blind Lunacy They Embrace With The Leash's Loop,
And Raise The Lens To A Miracle Of Sextants...
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In Every Black Hole... A Circus... A Dinner With Old Friends...
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Then...
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The Circus Is The Hole... And Its Diners With Mouths That Lack Utensil...
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But, That...
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That Was AllWays Just A ColorFull Walk In Its Balloon-Filled Park,
Running With The Frisbees And Ducking.

A Walk Through Falling Steps

Taller Than Icarus On A Unicycle,
While Manifesting A Carved Beard For A Shiny Face,
Squinty Weasel-Eyed Paradigm With Morning Yolk Dripping,
Trigger-Yeti With Philosophical Dairy Maids,
With The Lords Of Baccalaureate To Cling From The Cold Dead Sleep,
Tin Cans And String On A Psychic Boob-Job For Back Support...
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They Can Stensil Wings OnTo Loose Cloud Formations To Induce Spring Fevers,
Aluminum Soles For Walking Gingerly UpOn ReEntry InTo The Boiling Hypnos,
And Then To Talk The Egg From The Hen's Snatch,
Buying Out The Architects For Zephyrs From Strawberry Blondes,
A New Blue-Print For Mouths To Saw Through The Thicket,
Stacking Appropriately With Those Branches And Twigs...
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Straw Bent InTo Masks And Tied InTo Shape,
Killdeer Omens Crackleing Resinous,
The Pyre Shooting Its Milky Way Spiralling InTo Furnace Sparks,
Of Orange Burning Bright To White Then Black,
FootSteps And BootHeel-Clicks Sketching DisSolution,
It Is A Relative Realm To The OutSide Of The Glow,
With Squire'd Pegs In The Crib Board To Keep Watch...
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A Foot On A Pedal,
To Push The Other Up,
Turning The Crank...
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The Sound Of One Head Napping...
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To Trick The Thumb To Snap The Finger...
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It Is A Walk Through Falling Steps.

A Coarse Mare Called Carcosa, And UpOn It...A Faded Division

The Echoing Yell Laid Low,
All Once Guilded Now Rubble,
In Scorn Of Lovers Guided By None OutSide,
Fools And Their Circles OverHead For Halos And Lost Veils,
With UnderWater Kingdoms Washed AWay,
To Where Be The Intended For Seers To Pierce,
In The Rounding Of The Desolate Crawl,
Played As Cards UpOn The Revolving Door,
InTo HallWays Where Blackened Paintings Hang,
Not Hidden By Soot... No... To Scrape One's FingerNail Across Canvas Will Reveal...
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A Scratch Made InTo Memory's Delicate Shade,
Where That Mark Might Be Further Widened,
And To Peer InTo Its Distended Window...
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Never The Emptying Vessel For Wanting An Audience,
A Jar WithIn A Field WithIn A Negative Lock,
Under Spells For Killing The King With Randomness,
Lay'd As Dominoes UpOn The Painted Floor,
InTo Walls Peeling From Near Once Sainthood Sang,
Caught Forbidden By Set Pieces...
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No Pipeings To Mete Forwards To Scruples,
Done Only With Its Singer's Curse,
Whose Voice Not Be As Tattered As Its Vestige,
Vascular And Frozen In Claustrophobeic Implications...
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It Stitches Nine UpOn One's Lives,
And Leaves All SpeechLess By The Opening Scene...
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Can That Only Be What The HeadLess Bishop Wishes For (?)
As DayLight Ascends And His Dreams Melt AWay?

ShoeHorn

It Was A Trick Of The Light,
To The Wounded Winding Of Springs,
So She Could Lift Her Eyes To The Rift,
Where Mortality Could Be Feasted UpOn,
And With The Rotateing Of Erasure,
Mouths Could Construct Epitaphs In The Corner...
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Of That Room... A ChamberLess Embryo For A SexLess Sliver,
A ReVerseing Labyrinth Singing To ItSelf For A Body Politic,
Rolling InTo ItSelf To UnCorner And Be Juggled InTo Orbit With Plaster Cherubs,
As Fertility Dug Deep To Bury The Clock's Incessant Throne,
Ruleing InTo HerSelf To UnCover Another Jungle...
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Ignorance Biteing Worth...  Pleaseing Richer Ballistics,
A Stoned ForEver Swept Under The Rug To Keep Her Hands Flushed,
Insectile But Not ALone,
Cruelty Granting OnTo Its Union...  A Yesterday's Cutting Through...
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For Stained Glass...
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Coloring The Faces Of  All Those Who Sit BeSide Her,
UpOn Arbor And Brow...
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If It Is Good For The Noose,
Then It Be As Good For The Sander.