Life in the butter guts and cords of assassin
Amble on home fries with ketchup dispensaries
Bound for old glory in dew windowed times
Maybe a better swan or maybe a cheesecake
Maybe a reptile, a skylark, a jet
Swooning the sky with archdimpled dreams
Puffs of epoxy resonate freely in stars
Stagger the legs and saunter the belly
The dumpster alone dives in the night
Aimless and sorrow-felt scratching at itches
Underneath flannel, underneath belt
Picking up pieces where no morsels are kept
Batman pajamas and pill bug vasectomies
Hopscotch on rollerskates till we all fall down
Nowhere did anyone say breathe or sweet
Never was there a mock turkey pinch
Everything was real then, saddle held firm
And no one, not anyone dared remain sane.
(WTF. This is why I don’t write poetry.)