100

Oh, oh, if I reach that uh-oh,
I'll be a hundred and everything
will be dust on my pelvis,
with barely the breath to blow it
off.

Webs, web, till the N. Y. Times
says you're dead, and the
revisionists cuff you off,
it's a haul, controlled, yet,
a virtuous, dolled up, drowned out,
dragged out, windy head bobbing
on the sea.

Land, natural crony of water,
yet, will you rake me? Will you
exceptionally? Scrape me like a
barnacle, lick me like a fudgsicle,
collect me, connect me, correct me,
cash me in, like Flynn?


 

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

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

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