The moon rose pink and silent, an adornment on the lawn, I bet 9 whorls around
This thumbnail sketch the
Sun rises red near Cairo.
Too bad you lost it on a
Good strech,
An operational hazard,
Some lame 45, long on memory, short on talent.
Bet you cleaned up on the margins, but I bet you can't explain the stain on your shirt.
I think it's a hoot.
All those dark horses,
Come creeping in under the radar on a blue Sunday
With the sparrows lifting
One way then the other,
Silent, back to the wire again,
As cars hiss below the marginal scenery.
It's a dreary 9 to 5,
Nothing shaking on semanics
Catching 500 buses for the coast. Those suckers came and went while we watched
The moon rise over Memphis
But the sink drips and I think
Of olives stuffed with pimento, As a sweet thing
Walks across my window,
All legs and shining in the sun. When you make it free
You only make it worse.
Until then: create mythical
Creatures in the air.
Redo the blue laws every
Seven years. Tip the Triple Crown toward the sun.
Leave your shark tooth smile
At the door.
Its not really misinformation,
Its a hundred dead dreams
Lying on the stoop.
As the fan sails silent overhead. And trains run backward
On the other side of the Earth.