It’s why you can’t be captain, your bad bits keep leaking out.
I call him the Imposter, his horse looks just like mine.
That’s your hoss Buster and if you ain’t been in the saddle, then where in tarnation has you been?
I comes and goes, other actors take the stage.
Where goes it?
Gathering. It looks for another. Sits on the moon sometimes, or swims
To deep ocean’s dark bottom
Well I’ll be
Bird shapes in the branches, quick call, come go, kiss kiss, toodleloo. Wings go up and down.
It keeps talking
It’s my ride, he’s rash
I suppose you could call it that. I call him the Lobster, he snaps.
I might too if I were being boiled alive.
Sitting on the step sometimes, trying to remember how to dream,
With the woodpigeons drowsily waiting in the garden, while blackbird sings.
And the wren whips through the leaves of the ivy
Out and in, swift eye, peering through the ivy
Then into the air, is gone.
It’s a sad song.
It’s written in stone, wrought in wreaves, graven and goodgiven, not the soot and smut you’d stand it for. Whitens in mist, or when clouds cloak it.
Don’t darken it.
Speak plain mister
It’s speech? It smells right? It’s funny, I felt it so. It froths. You deem it amiss?
It turns that way, over the pink muscle
of the tongue. Eye it
Its markings, machine-made,
That’s gun talk
where it gets it, how it falls out
in the breath.
It’s all chewy
I grafted it myself
I done my part
You played your part I spun my art and out of earth picked poetry
Pah! Paltry, my Poppy
could pipe better/
Pipe down, I gust it, my facts were misconstrued. I hatched it
from the start, a great yolk, all of it, a wheeze, a lark, a ruse.
A starling, a stork and a mistral thrush, a wren, a seabird too
Say, an albatross
Morbid destiny, the error won’t be obviated. It hangs as physical weight and the heart
has to work harder. It drags downwards, it slows the step, it palsies the hand.
So you can’t shoot straight>
Sin started it
It sounded sweet?
Like cotton candy
Sweeten it! I’ll sugar everything. If you hadn’t frightened a face on me I’d have none. Just a mutter among many moaning. You plucked me.
You was suspicious looking.
The cats called it. I was whistling Dixie, you saw it, drinking my milk
straight out the bottle
Sure as Dixie’s Daisy
And a slug of whatever he’s having, that’s the spirit. I’ll slurp it, a soupcon, no, scratch it,
a six-shooter, something I can blow the smoke off of.
Sure thing Smokey
A sure thing’s a fine thing Dusty, and you can salt your fries with that.
Sure as Tacos Tuesday.
Totally. It’s a tease. My time was running out. I totalled it, trashed it and traded it in.
Timeshares are risky business partner
Don’t I know it, it twists
You can’t trust it
It turns on you
It’s terrible. I’m torn. My pieces everywhere.
My fleece is everywhere,
What will they call us?
Dialogue of the Soul with an Uncertain American Dimension.
Of uncertain age
And curious Destiny. Grant it, we two
Grant Good’s Grace
It was here written-
And shall it be
I choose it
A damn fine double act.
Doubtless, I deem it so
And believe it often
Dream it when I sleep at night
And waking keep touching it
It wants it
It’s Totem Truth
It gallops the wide prairie, it cries freedom, wild wind, in her hair.
I seeded it myself.
It seemed it
A toast to your good health-
I need it
Each time of hearing my own heart rends anew.
I lost it
O that I could-
Calm it, I couldn’t keep it, cool it, it simmers by itself.
I’m Ham Spam
I’m Hawaii Spam with Pineapple Pieces
Aloha Hawaii Spam
Hullo there Ham Spam
Let’s spickle candidly
True, we’re tinned that’s the nub of it, the meat is all inside
Our virtue’s all within.
I’ve unstitched him. His meat is all without
You’ve nobbled me. I’ve nubbed it. My innards are out, I’m opened, but strangely see
The true nature of all things, it spreads before me
I’m pink but I’m curious. It’s recursive and wafts in waves. It’s sliced in stacks see it?
(he speaks profound) It’s piecemeal, can it be stuck together?
In kind, I think, it’s complicated. Each lozenge can be elongated. They’re tongue-like
Poke it out, unfurl it
It has a certain grandeur when it’s folded
It has its high points
It peaks and troughs it’s true. Is it terminal?
We’re numbered in days, calendars, we tear off the pages, till it tells one day’s December