the blue clock ticks
with poor man marching boots
on a night
unwilling to wave goodbye,
overstaying her sky time
and shutting out
the skipping rope sun,
stealing his moment
in the light of day.

fleeing the scene,
carrying a satin-sack
bag of tricks
over my shoulder,
stuffed with a mix of gimmicks
and chips -
i crawl on my knees
on the lost chord path
blindly
following the hollering
blackbirds song
from the hovering,
hanging sky.

a vision of paradise
adds the last bundle of straw
to the cross i carry
across my broken back
in a one-way
seaside lane
on the beat off track
where a pendulum seesaw ship
swims to the shore,
calling my name.

in a race to save my face
on the spinning globe
roundabout,
the pickup stick paramedics
stop to disinfect my ****** knees
and resurrect me
with a white Gemini ointment.
while pumping my chest and
pressing the creases
of my ***** laundry -
back from the brink
i blink and beg:
**** me,
please.