The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.

I

The Owl and the *****-cat went to sea
  In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
  Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
  And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely *****! O ***** my love,
  What a beautiful ***** you are,
    You are,
    You are!
What a beautiful ***** you are!'

II

***** said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
  How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
  But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
  To the land where the ****-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
  With a ring at the end of his nose,
    His nose,
    His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

III

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
  Your ring?'Said the Piggy,'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
  By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
  Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
  They danced by the light of the moon,
    The moon,
    The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

I

Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos
    Lived on the top of the wall,
  For twenty years, a month and a day,
  Till their hair had grown all pearly gray,
    And their teeth began to fall.
They never were ill, or at all dejected,
By all admired, and by some respected,
      Till Mrs. Discobbolos said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'It has just come into my head,
'We have no more room at all--
        'Darling Mr. Discobbolos

II

'Look at our six fine boys!
    'And our six sweet girls so fair!
  'Upon this wall they have all been born,
  'And not one of the twelve has happened to fall
    'Through my maternal care!
'Surely they should not pass their lives
'Without any chance of husbands or wives!'
      And Mrs. Discobbolos said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'Did it never come into your head
'That our lives must be lived elsewhere,
        'Dearest Mr. Discobbolos?

III

'They have never been at a ball,
    'Nor have ever seen a bazaar!
  'Nor have heard folks say in a tone all hearty
  "What loves of girls (at a garden party)
    Those Misses Discobbolos are!"
'Morning and night it drives me wild
'To think of the fate of each darling child!'
      But Mr. Discobbolos said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'What has come to your fiddledum head!
'What a runcible goose you are!
        'Octopod Mrs. Discobbolos!'

IV

Suddenly Mr. Discobbolos
    Slid from the top of the wall;
  And beneath it he dug a dreadful trench,
  And fille it with dynamite, gunpowder gench,
    And aloud he began to call--
'Let the wild bee sing,
'And the blue bird hum!
'For the end of our lives has certainly come!'
      And Mrs. Discobbolos said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'We shall presently all be dead,
'On this ancient runcible wall,
        'Terrible Mr. Discobbolos!'

V

Pensively, Mr. Discobbolos
    Sat with his back to the wall;
  He lighted a match, and fired the train,
  And the mortified mountain echoed again
    To the sound of an awful fall!
And all the Discobbolos family flew
In thousands of bits to the sky so blue,
      And no one was left to have said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'Has it come into anyone's head
'That the end has happened to all
        'Of the whole of the Clan Discobbolos?'

The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said "Some day you may lose them all;"
He replied "Fish, fiddle-de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe, -- provided he minds his nose!"

The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side -
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn,
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps, or crawfish grey,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away -
Nobody knew: and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish, -
And she said "It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes!"

the heirloom runcible spoon lies buried in  sand,
the tarzana kid has been accused of carelessness,
by such means
his holiday is horribly trampled,
this chided summer youth
now walks the plank,
its all pirates on the dorset coast.
Parents out of order
more bucaneer than relish
and Aunties only now kinder
by learned rote.

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear,
Who has written such volumes of stuff.
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few find him pleasant enough.

His mind is concrete and fastidious,
His nose is remarkably big;
His visage is more or less hideous,
His beard it resembles a wig.

He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,
(Leastways if you reckon two thumbs);
He used to be one of the singers,
But now he is one of the dumbs.

He sits in a beautiful parlour,
With hundreds of books on the wall;
He drinks a great deal of marsala,
But never gets tipsy at all.

He has many friends, laymen and clerical,
Old Foss is the name of his cat;
His body is perfectly spherical,
He weareth a runcible hat.

When he walks in waterproof white,
The children run after him so!
Calling out, "He's gone out in his night-
Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!"

He weeps by the side of the ocean,
He weeps on the top of the hill;
He purchases pancakes and lotion,
And chocolate shrimps from the mill.

He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish,
He cannot abide ginger beer;
Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!

by the light of the m👀n
in the blue @fterⁿ°°ⁿ
həy ****** ******
a cat p!ays a fiddle,
a li'l d●g nam'd Skiffle
laffs like fracking a nut house,
& a cøw jnmps
👁ver a runcible §poon)

There once was a man on the Moon
Who dined with a runcible spoon.
     The dinner was splendid,
     And when it was ended
They played with a rainbow balloon.

Their dulcet tones
feeding them by the runcible spoon
Is there a calamity in their velocity
Their earthly maneuvers
makes us a vision of beauty
Glances that make a betrothal
yet there's no omission
Just an absorbency of perfection
serving the spirit