SLAY THE MONARCH & THE PROGRAM whilst ***** smokes
shadows upon walls indebting ***** to plucky seven vinegar strokes
I see no point projecting unlaid, lay-about chicks from routine coax
of Kabuki theater flim-flamming quackery that's a penny-ante hoax
wrecked banjaxed on grimy floors sudsed-in crap in which it soaks
I'll never see Cleveland alive as Mother is making it with some fly
whose stolen Detroit dives to hell under ***** bucks who are high
on fed cheese that is curdled & matured on the Chinese ****** lie
broadcasted across seas placid by radio hoo-hoo below half-life sky
tenting fortified wines blended with hops, barley and mildewed rye
in bath tubs devoid of naked wenches morally-wonked and gun-shy
working the angles on de-lousing Camden: old New Jersey's pig sty
because the sight of immorally-uncivil plans blind the Lutheran eye
Subhan Allah, David & Goliath, Samson & Delilah must wilt & die
as cities ***** & Gomorrah substituted fruit cake for pumpkin pie
legions of sodomites patrolled all alleyways as curfews didn't apply
when crusaders knighted moralistes Chrétiens were in short supply
& negroids unarmed had no choice in whitey nations but to comply
'cause guns over butter win the body-count, nobody alive can deny,
while prisoners without tongues are so stuck-up, they will not reply
till they overcome their dispositions as amputees tongue-tied & shy
about swift kicks to those Chaz Bono regions that cause men to cry
in an ionospheric register that shouldn't emanate from a normal dye
except in incorporated Amìr̃kà where each prison fry cook must fry
or suffer the fate that ruined commanding lieutenant William Bligh
whose sympathy was such that he'd have done better not to even try
tasteless breadfruit diplomacy upon a sweaty-palmed Christian guy
as it was a tipsy, get-go endeavor like herding cats & feeding slaves
or burying a whacked **** in any of Idaho's tourist-attracting caves
opposite a funky monument to governor Butch Otter making waves
without his buck teeth, quaffing ****** from barrels lacking staves
to enshrine an ape-scraped pate or picnicker's litany of close shaves
from the living, dying by demi-godlike, semi-doctors' clots & raves
in the bowels of the A.M.A. & the C.D.C. for Luciferian conclaves
while suppressing experiences of saving at Equibank in olden days
before gay Pittsburgh was inundated with homosexual lesbian gays
who imbibed ****-soaked chicory quenchers on pap-smeared trays

☒ shadows upon walls indebting ***** to plucky seven vinegar strokes
☒ I see no point protecting unlaid, lay-about chicks from routine coax
☒ of Kabuki theater flim-flamming quackery that's a penny-ante hoax
☒ wrecked banjaxed on grimy floors sudsed in crap in which it soaks

have I ever seen your missing sock?
hanging on the wall with the rest left behind
unaware it touched the feet of someone I’ve yet to meet
but knew so well a thousand lifetimes before.

have our clothes shared the same space?
yours in the washer mine just sudsed in
while mine dry on medium heat in the third dyer on the right
and I sit in a coffee shop
and you go to walk your dog.

and when I retrieve my clothes
yours are in the dryer next to mine
the fourth dryer on the right
did I leave a sock behind?

as you take your clothes from the dryer, do you see a fallen sock in front of your machine?
Halloween in August
you have no idea it belongs to me.
am I even still a memory?

and I come back next week
unaware we both have Tuesdays off
your clothes are in the washer
as I load mine into the spot next to yours
and I go to put coins in
I realize my mind got the best of me
and I have no cash for the change.

as I run to the bank
the timer ticks down
you walk around the corner from the opposite direction
you make it back two minutes to spare
as I wait in line to avoid an ATM fee
you toss your clothes
(or do you load them with care unlike me?)
into that third dryer on the right.

like a ghost you are gone
and I never knew you came
as I trade a $20 in for more quarters than I can carry
the rumble of your clothes harmonizes with the clinking of the coins and then the wooshing of the water.

when the beep comes and I roll my clothes to the dryers
I curse whatever stranger chose the third dryer on the right
in my mind I’ve always claimed that one as mine.

unaware I was cursing an old friend
and I’m the one who is cursed
so I guess that makes two
this eternal phantom dance we do
my midnight confidant
from a past life
intertwined with my mundane routine
so far and so close from our star filled dreams.