does kumbaya still rhyme with coup d'état
do you worship the blame do you need the blame
do you want the blame do you fan the blame
in a side note I remember taking a girlfriend
to a comedy show in the 1980's
the one with the "...you know that I know Ed Norton
wants to fuck Ralph Kramden in the ass..." routine
as splendid as the spleen is
so was Eddie Murphy shoe shined
by Lorne Michaels, one smart canard
we stood in the doorways
a middle path home to poem land
we took to gang structure drive thru and byes
no one said anything but we did pass the hat
how about that, television
is still the drug of the nation
fucking fake, rake me over hot coals
souls dying to go to hell it seems
this poem is already there
how about you and I square dance
and shave edge some dimes
to coat our bodies in silver
Moon looks at us, laughing
She likes being occluded red
We Love Her, when we're fed
by Her while on a raft singing
songs with made up lyrics
topical ointments and road food
meanwhile the air smells
like they shot it full of dead horses
bear scat and scavenge-d
scattered roadkill
the eagles are desperate for respect
as birds of prey, the crows all caw
crawling wired "we saw you"s
hovering over the dumpsters again
there is whimsy in their cries
vulture culturing beer tabbed strings of pearls
She gathers me
in smiles and wear
I swear to the silent rapping
against my heart
a wet Spring night
is the place to start
wearing one's self
where there are no moments
that cannot be limb-ed
against the cry
of Frankenstein-ed skies ...
how did She know
the handbag would pair so well
with the hen toothed poem
and any regard I carried
life, limb and the pursuit
of exhales ...
sometimes Edward you're so far up your own ass
that you're like a baby's mouth on a nipple with your uvula
meanwhile the trees just shudder and leave me alone
I went outside and felt alive in the rain ...
sometimes the light bearers clip,
cut and tuck their wings
to fit into all the places humanity
goes to hide its spiritual side ...
release your inner Kraken please they whisper ...
otherwise humans,
you are Norman Bates-ing
Sweet Polly Purebread intentions
of going into the light
when you might just like yourself
with all the shenanigan wool over your eyes
parlor trickery-ing dickering docking Love
as down payments for being held up for Life ...
EJR ©
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