spilling spite into the bucket below me,
I tank at the tulip garden on top of a
mack truck, so sleepy and quieted.
slipping onto something more uncomfortable,
I alleviate my tamer ticks by tackling colds,
creating matches, and keeping general stamps
on my collective unconscious. then, tipping
stop-gap moos and reaching round-abouts,
mellow lanky mop-heads come at me.
such is life with zapping, crying tap dancers.
muffing, I lounge inside a chicken coop,
then trundle around seven rotund, kept
sucubi. same search as last year, only
this sirius ain’t want it cooed to see.
leveling reactions on labeled raunchies,
I conclude that it is sordid to leap before
you lap, and kick three sick drunks on
my sack full of secrets. rocking lakes
of socking, yellow catch-me-on-the-can
reruns, licking right of lame quite-sos, and
mightying marks of sealed rainbows, the
cleaned wire gaunts lovely. what a feeling!
to run down roaring gloves on wrong, so
wrong, rearrangements, I settle down to me.