Old prophets ride on balloons
with their noses above their beards
Poking into and stirring around  affairs
like my stunted grandfather
with his finger in a pine bush
stirring up the bird that nested there.

The moaning of the prophets became
The growling of a caged cheeseburger
Long snouted, glaring up at me
From its jail cell hole in the floor,
Which was the ventilation grate.

My grandfather hunted him
In full John Wayne regalia
Stalking among the mesas and plateau
Of 1970's afghan covered furniture sets
Which were the desert of his crust.

The bedentured coffee cup fell of the shelf
and broke and shattered, from that
The schnoz'd cheeseburger left,
Yes he retreated down the vent.
Which was the liberation of my dreams

Tobacco stuck to grandfather's boots
It was pungent and potent but
also diabetic and diabolic.
Some family thinks it killed him
Which was the excuse behind my punishment


The prophets balloon's
Their threads were cut
and they crashed into a pine bush
stirring up the bird that nested there.
Which was my grandfather's spirit.