these days the weevils march
into the cerebellum harkening the barrow-born
and disquiet. we somehow slumber near-
the cyclones of over dumb.
we succumb to the torrent of our grimoires.
chastened only by Time enough
to **** it up completely.
we are indiscreet en masse.
like a horde of uncomfortable Truths.
and a basket of uncommon proofs
ogling the myopia of our hive
madness.
how we let the squirrels do their thing
is a mystery,

on this globe of woe, our Love generates
the next impossible flower.
our usual display of ignorance is curtailed
by an hour of minutes being beautiful...
the span of our lives.

Sour Sugarcubes are Choirs of UnSung Salt

II

at the beginning, all was a capsule of gleek
glaring at the sun with all the pivot of a dismal Tasmanian Devil
levitating neutrons to new Lows… coming about like a train-
with wings
scaling the heights of Our caverns-
like a nosey Dwarf. carving blood into a river of unrequited treacle.
the Quest of Kings, bound to the bottom of a tyranny
that spells the word for Happiness
with an X.

Yet Love Happens, Yes.