Traces of constellations written in freckles on your back
A laugh like Judaism and a touch like loneliness
Can only explain it in pictures of black and white images
like a chemical combustion in frail snapshots
tethered hands all  weathered and rough
Misspoken masterpieces communicated through touch
So hard to contain this sensation
I can't explain through anything tangible
A cloud that changes shape upon inspection
Spectacles, our honors
gleaming like a trophy that's hidden in a box
left alone to rust
Miscellaneous hands grasped to chasms
moving so quick and fast
There's no lines attached to those burdens or
bodies crisp gloves cover up
Stretched or crunched
hovering like a light
above storms in the town square
Overblown posters with checkers
faded colors in Spring
advertising bands
that I won't listen too, fabric I'll never feel
noises I'll never have to speak over
or turn down on radios
Artichoke hearts stabbed by the fork
held by an animator choking on the root
This is the inheritance of sound
of presences on stages or garages
These oiled gemstones
blurred behind faceless statuesque
pieces of cold stone

Click, clack
bucket hat
won't that ghost go home.
Flying around the moon,
silent in the smoke,
in a spaceship made of stone.

Voyage of the ******.
It begins with one.
The man was once a great explorer,
reduced to
the time between six and noon.

Recovery is a process that takes
lies, and
deceit, and
moon light.
Shining through window panes and
smelling of sulfur.

Coo coo achoo.
God bless you.

If the apple rises up in revolt,
what would Newton do?

The world is full of monsters and cheap drinks.
Yes,
the two go together.
Sometimes they hide behind ghosts.
Expect the unexpected to tell the truth
in jazz bars and to
use ***** needles.

Clack, click
the rumors will stick in
the adulterers mind.
Which is funny because the punchline,
wraps around the world,
like a snake crushing the Golden Goose with monstrous jaws.

The ghost struggles to shake hands while,
watching the street collect dust.

The man dies.

So,
now there are two.

Swirling and spinning,
crisp and clean.
The house will be demolished.
Brick by brick by brick by brick.
Windows don't break,
they shatter like glass.
Which makes sense over time.

What if the ghost can't go home?
Then,
there will only be two.

Coo coo bless you.
Cut off before the big finale,
***** curtains dropping
hints that,
the spaceship with be destroyed.

Death will come for the man.
The ghost will go home.
Click,
clack.
There is no bucket hat on the moon,
only the sound of trucks rumbling.
The moon,
like all cheeses,
spoils
the child and spares the rod.

Dish, dash, doom.
Hair slicked back,
the man is lowered into the grave,
looking like fire.
No tombstone reminder.
Just green grass and
mistakes made for two.

Watching in the rearview mirror as the world turns,
finally,
the man is an explorer once more.

Old King Cole needs no introduction.
The lands cheer when he rises from his throne.
Old King Cole was indeed a merry old soul.
He fancied wine and women,
Merlot and money.
Feasts fit for a king can always be found in his halls.
There once was fiddlers four.
That is until Old King Cole found one using his pipe and wife.
He is very protective of that pipe.
No,
Old King Cole needs no introduction.
Step out of line and you'd face the gallows.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
who ruled with an iron fist.
Old King Cole believed it was better to be feared than loved.
His garments were made of the finest textiles and jewels.
His people starved and he had more bowls.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul.
Indeed.

My sweet Maria,
You are my marina,
My little ocean swell,
Are you feeling unwell?
Give me your flu,
Golden French horns
Ringing out for you ,
Fold away your cold,
Solid gold, you've glowed,
Take all your symphonic coughs,
And bury them in a box,
A coughing coffin,
Under keys and locks.

-Jamie F. Nugent