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cLOUDDEAD
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And All You Can Do Is Laugh. (1)
Wednesday's dirty blood clot.
Hoards of leaves wear 3-d glasses
to whisper the wind's plea to accept an emptied room.
Backtalk, the bethlehem of patios points backwards
footprints at the stagehand puppets friendly lament.
This is a NO CHOKING ZONE,
hypocrites in a china cabinet,
an exit bound conga line,
a busy junk yard.
It's McDonalds versus
a handful of dry seamonkeys
awaiting the wet sponge
face smack domino
vampire infection, MARK.
A tub of 'spensive people serum
two inner-tubes thick
attracts cerebus from southern Ohio, girl.
Some like it hot.
Shitting 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, excuse me...
tarred and feathered for life on the next.
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 wich a desert cactus lives
be adopted by the sycamore as well?
The cloud is dead, the fog has cleared
the sun is peaking through 'a happy little tree.'
Bob Ross?
Yes.
He's underground,
way underground.
Herbert Hoover he's underground,
stupid underground.
L.B.J. is underground,
super underground.
Grover Cliveland he's underground,
mass underground.
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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 G.W.
yeah you know he's underground,
deep down.
'You can't look cool
running across the street'
and bottle broke
and the soap was left sink side
or the bar-tenders never pay attention.
Show and tell
with a gag blindfold
wrapped around the entire congregation.
Constraints.
'Put another dime in the juke-box baby.'
Pocket full of lightning wads
and cat calls 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.
42...71...á˜
ladies and gentleman,
its been a pleasure.
My
light
bulb's
gone
grey
something
something
most
change (improved)
since
stuffing.
A leaf in it's twilight looks 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.
Here's the meat:
I can't count 40 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.
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