why?:
wednesday's dirty blood clot,
a h***d of leaves wear 3-d glasses
to whisper the wind's plea to accept an emptied room.
dose one:
backtalk, the bethlehem of patios points backwards,
footprints at the stagehand puppet's friendly lament.
why?:
this is a no choking zone,
dose one:
hypocrites in a china cabinet,
why?:
an exit-bound conga line,
dose one:
a busy junkyard.
why?:
it's mcdonalds versus a handful of dry seamonkies
awaiting the wet sponge face smack domino vampire infection, mark.
dose one:
a tub of expensive people serum, two inner-tubes thick,
attracts cerebus from southern ohio, girl.
why?:
some like it hot,
dose one:
s******* one's self.
scared, back onto the swing set,
tastefully terrible caricature of "construction man."
back and forth, back and forth, saving myself on one day,
tarred and feathered for life on the next.
why?:
excuse me! is it built brick on brick
or the pages of poems bound by the school house thread?
wrap it all up in a paper towel until the bottom rips out
and the football's fumble.
should the rules by which a desert cactus lives
be adopted by a sycamore as well?
dose one:
the cloud is dead, the fog has cleared,
the sun is peaking through a happy little tree.
bob ross? yes.
why?:
the cloud is dead, the fog has cleared,
the sun is peaking through a happy little tree.
bob ross? yes.
dose one, why?:
he's underground,
way underground.
herbert hoover, he's underground,
stupid underground.
lbj is underground,
super underground.
grover cleveland, he's underground,
mass underground.
william howard taft is underground,
straight underground.
zack taylor, ya know he's underground,
crazy underground.
calvin coolidge is underground,
he's hella underground.
even big gw,
yeah you know he's underground,
deep down.
dose one:
"you can't look cool running across the street",
and bottle broke, and the soap was left sink side,
or the bartenders never pay attention.
show and tell with a gag blindfold wrapped around the entire congregation.
constraints. "put another dime in the jukebox baby."
pocket full of lightning wads and cat calls gush, gush,
like, i've never died from thirst
while preaching up the wrong tree
or slinking through the fence through the posts because you can fit.
forty-two, seventy-one, non-zero.
ladies and gentlemen, it's been a pleasure.
why?:
my light bulb's gone grey. something, something.
most change since stuffing.
dose one:
my light bulb's gone grey. something, something.
most improved since stuffing.
why?:
a leaf in the twilight looks like a million bucks,
like hot pink paint you couldn't buy before synthetics.
to sit under the first autumn tree in the park
and watch a tee-ball practice just before dark.
sunset is an all day process.
one, two, three, now here's the meat:
i can't count forty fat women in spandex power walking circles around me,
as i stare at a deserted baseball field,
writing a rap in red pen on the back of a printed e-mail folded twice.
hot, dog.
wednesday's dirty blood clot,
a h***d of leaves wear 3-d glasses
to whisper the wind's plea to accept an emptied room.
dose one:
backtalk, the bethlehem of patios points backwards,
footprints at the stagehand puppet's friendly lament.
why?:
this is a no choking zone,
dose one:
hypocrites in a china cabinet,
why?:
an exit-bound conga line,
dose one:
a busy junkyard.
why?:
it's mcdonalds versus a handful of dry seamonkies
awaiting the wet sponge face smack domino vampire infection, mark.
dose one:
a tub of expensive people serum, two inner-tubes thick,
attracts cerebus from southern ohio, girl.
why?:
some like it hot,
dose one:
s******* one's self.
scared, back onto the swing set,
tastefully terrible caricature of "construction man."
back and forth, back and forth, saving myself on one day,
tarred and feathered for life on the next.
why?:
excuse me! is it built brick on brick
or the pages of poems bound by the school house thread?
wrap it all up in a paper towel until the bottom rips out
and the football's fumble.
should the rules by which a desert cactus lives
be adopted by a sycamore as well?
dose one:
the cloud is dead, the fog has cleared,
the sun is peaking through a happy little tree.
bob ross? yes.
why?:
the cloud is dead, the fog has cleared,
the sun is peaking through a happy little tree.
bob ross? yes.
dose one, why?:
he's underground,
way underground.
herbert hoover, he's underground,
stupid underground.
lbj is underground,
super underground.
grover cleveland, he's underground,
mass underground.
william howard taft is underground,
straight underground.
zack taylor, ya know he's underground,
crazy underground.
calvin coolidge is underground,
he's hella underground.
even big gw,
yeah you know he's underground,
deep down.
dose one:
"you can't look cool running across the street",
and bottle broke, and the soap was left sink side,
or the bartenders never pay attention.
show and tell with a gag blindfold wrapped around the entire congregation.
constraints. "put another dime in the jukebox baby."
pocket full of lightning wads and cat calls gush, gush,
like, i've never died from thirst
while preaching up the wrong tree
or slinking through the fence through the posts because you can fit.
forty-two, seventy-one, non-zero.
ladies and gentlemen, it's been a pleasure.
why?:
my light bulb's gone grey. something, something.
most change since stuffing.
dose one:
my light bulb's gone grey. something, something.
most improved since stuffing.
why?:
a leaf in the twilight looks like a million bucks,
like hot pink paint you couldn't buy before synthetics.
to sit under the first autumn tree in the park
and watch a tee-ball practice just before dark.
sunset is an all day process.
one, two, three, now here's the meat:
i can't count forty fat women in spandex power walking circles around me,
as i stare at a deserted baseball field,
writing a rap in red pen on the back of a printed e-mail folded twice.
hot, dog.