The poems that are nonsense
Some work like limericks, and eddy
Like jokes on a drink of scotch, and a talk on Neal Cassady
The luncheon, and criminal affairs, the belted ladies with their cummerbunds and burgeoning wishes
The moist coffee, that touches you cupcake lips and kisses the dessert foam
The creme brulee, cider, and apples, you take bites and Bill Evans that plays the ebony and ivory
Stones that rock organs, keyboards, and rock changing streets
The streets that billow of cigarette meditation and ****** addiction spread like rated multiplexes meant for adults
Taxi cabs looking for some darkness in a handful of destiny