There’s an assembly in the making
and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event
making way to their front row seats
****** in nose  
hanky in hand  
and all colorfully draped  
in those cuffed pin stripes
and Jerry Garcia ties

now what would the Grateful Dead
or any of their fine entourage
have to say about this foul routine?

Apropos of that
they’re talking in the 3rd person
with tight syllables
and wavy hands
and all taking a run
at the state of the union
there’s Valentino
and Freddie
and good old Sal
"look....their fiddling with their nuts!"
cries a layman from the balcony seats
the Yin and the Yang
have got even the most liberal minded
scratching their heads
as questions fly in from the field:

don’t you know the way it used to be?
have you no morals?
which way to the exit!?

These front row fanatics
have surely been scrimmaging
in the corn fields
all down in that classic 3 point
watching their weight
with sample selections from the
Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar
as members of the congregation look on with envy

pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!

Union heads are running rogue
loading up on grievances
and lines
passing files at a make shift pew
jumping the bunkers
and stepping on clams
while the orderlies move in  
for governance

It’s a bewildered state  
and only for the mind of the rigorous
Jimmy D would say:
“it’s nothing you *****...to the victor goes the spoils!
everyone has a bit of good you know...
you just have to find it!"

Unrest is growing in the ranks
and the masses are unstable
Time to hammer down
with a formidable brace
and two tick play

Of the greatest spinning,
at dawns formable bowtie hour
in materials soft and sour
comes the velocity of understanding
among vapor rebellions-
scrimmaging clouds, a solemn weap within, inside
wanting to hide from gravity stricken rain
take cover in the trees,
take cover in the leaves.
A roof over your water boarded head,
and witness all electric feelings vanish from
clay stricken pale skin.
the ones that offer no sense
and hence, the adventure
it is not the same.
as beams forged from mosquito
hammers and nails:
the construct, sweaty prison arisen
to catch the artful tears
of all the games above.

Tomb of council in the march of waits
Castle in the tourist populate
Nothing’s here to mitigate
Told you once
Go unto the night
Then you hide
Granting syllables in the sky
Scrimmaging inside the mark of parts
Thinking as the waiter counts the scars
Stooping down to be aligned
Fighting wars
To be all brand new
Standing there till you cannot choose how to lose

Limerence like a band of thieves
Thorn of whistle cutters like an ambulance
Sing to mark the eye where the ribbon can sigh and cry

I often think,
when scrimmaging
Among traffic,
that the city seems to
Swallow you.
Isn’t it strange,
how some people
Find that comforting?