A good thing afoot
In it's own way

What an indescribable mess I have made myself into,
toppling over my own heels
falling over my feet in a spinning whirling whoop.
Can you hear the comical horns as I begin my descent?
Bulging pupils as I see myself
hoping not to bust into flame at the sight of you.
Carnivore my third glaring eyes is
(and yours too, I could imagine)
but lacking is the verbal commencement
the proclamation that is called for when doing such business
on this field of what there is.

Back and forth,
Back and forth,
Between being too much and
saying too little,
and at the center of all of this
the core of what you know.
Peeled and glowing
radiation from the dimensional seeds.
Say too much, but too much is
all there is and you understand
that the sting of a disgusted or worse
sympathetic face
is not worth the freeing of
words that scratch your
throat and
pound their crumbling walls in the nemesis head for
freedom from the
human wall.

jumpin' in the turtle soup
Strumming on the gee-tar with a
thousand twisting rags
not here not here, you are the fool.

Baron Saturday
The Moon God sees these are fitting beasts.
There's a snek in my Jim nest and i'm fully chinned, laughing at
me the walk twist the key's own menstrual pattern.
Wander out of it's not time's own belonging to my neighborhood.
As I (in jest) myselve's own existing
contrary to bird law's bound booklet handed from headless
man on the subway, so it will become.

You are probably being too much.
The suddenness of a rattlesnake in a steel drum singing his little anthem for awestruck ant people.
The desert has the voice of a dead choir, and twisted containers of marmalade mean nothing to the twisted head.
A primate
Day-tripping burnt out flipped over and freaked-out, the groove kicks back in and the memory of a thing comes rising back from genetic recess, the cavern of slavish cells whose ancestors are the dust we breathe.