very soon, now, the whole

very soon, now, the whole bagger’s crashing down
it’s having a certain deleterious effect
a switching to laudanum after months on spiced green tea
for fear and cattiness, the fiddler plays, urging
highstep, dance, and figure. keep the cradled crowd from clapping
tinny as an eardrum set on the calliope months of space
just don’t speak when all the words come crashing in,
they will you know, come crashing in.
and then the world will open like a proud beggar.
fist raised and open, holding gleaming coins to clutch
hurricanes are on their way and gleaming
find the glimmering path and stop your maundering,
col-parr cal-perr van diggledy mopster
i have a small self to barter with, here’s me.
for all my self, here’s something shiny.
operate the painless sign and cut its arms away,
keep its feet from chopping on the block
or clogging their fast way, flown downstreet and up
by creating a cornucopia of words on which to feast, what then?
fool, tell the truth when you stand on your spongebox!
don’t let those deepsea dwellers have all the stuff!
keep on trying when all you want to do is sleep
sleep and sleep some more.

old old old

miraculous countertropes. guide the withered plan to forethought or foresight,
if you can. if your shanks contain the necessary gumption to plow onward.
onward. constantly doubting the sincerity of alltheflown. set myself under
the umbrellaman, waited for hours and hours and hours. or minutes and minutes
and minutes. but the sullen one didn’t show, left me waiting untimely. took
me at least three seconds to blow off that dark mood. is it too much to ask
for a little courtesy? a little courtesy? why do the people stroll so cold
inside the stair? when all their heads are bundled: they say, “help me, i’m
so alone, i have a million ache-ey thoughts, but now the darkness cramps
my soiled light!” in spite of this, they spin inside their ridiculous non-courtesy.
they show hate for the unknown, with their nonaction. what a tangled world
lurks there and what a tiny piece of it contains me. so tiny. i’ve only managed
to unravel inches maybe centimeters. it’s worthy of unravelling, i should

tinny earwhistles march to the

tinny earwhistles march to the drum of a cantonese salesman of wallpaper.
each time the skinny blows, we leap about like frogs and walruses.
give it time, they say. we know better.
every muffin rolls about in mud and perpetuates the cycle.
green glasses on the verandah. don’t kiss her there!
can’t you see the tightening about her mouth, that scolding
backward glance. each time we cry it apes a bitter role.
when the sausages are done, there and there and there,
there will be a feast, a feast of heaven on sticks.
no lil’ smokes for you or me. if only I could fasten
a holographic smoke projector to my hand and mouth:
it would save all the coffin trouble which follows.
if you’re not careful, your lungs and eyes will fill with yellow smoke.
why does the dancing care so much?
the nails need paring, soon they scratch the flesh.
similarly, when all the hulas began to sway,
the girl in black cut our heart away. her smile the knife.
here have a piece, take it gladly. i’ve no regrets.
i’ve no regrets.
when the burlyman stands on his soapbox raging, do we listen?
do we? we don’t want to hear about regrets.
choke that yellow sauce down. make the belly lurch.
trance your state: eat the sausage now and no regret.
even though it makes the sidewalls quake, still
juggling that standard matchstick. inform the keeper.
uncles keep keeling over. smashed to bits by the all-
devouring mother. how can we save the uncles?
there’s only tiny mishmashed left… how sad.