Counting the Conundrums

Counting the conundrums
to all the way to the country
of taffy and difficult woods
full of stuck axes and destinationless
paths,
silvery branches asking for silence
and rebelling with fell swoops,
dishing and dirting with flickering arms--
it's the charmed life of mottos,
through the ups and down drama of
a modern farm.

Watching people jump over sheep--
it's an estimated tax till you relax,
over jazz and a terrible book.
I wish it would shake, shook,
it all up
some other Ótime in a frame
of certain lengths,
because we all have certain strengths
subject to curtains.

Counting the conundrums
through the wet streets like
penises, like pennies
falling and bouncing off curbs
of plenty,
leaping like shiny copper-wet minds,
heads, tails, wailing like walls,
tails, heads, answering too many questions with simply death.

Too many questions, not enough pesto,
not enough gusto or forsight
or lava lights
suggesting solutions in alien shapes,
halos relating to each other--red to green,
green to great
thoughts to keep bubbling up, by george
with a simple soluble,
make it global, globule
and we'll all be malleable, palatable, strangled, smuggled out of ourselves,
smacking ourselves,
outselling our wills.


 

back

POETRYP||| MUSIC ||| INTERVIEWS ||| REVIEWS

1961 CHRYSLER ||| UPCOMING EVENTS ||| ART ||| WRITINGS

||| E-MAIL MR. LUCKY! |||