Dance the squirrel parting windows

In the glade where poets

Cannot say

Like the tubers

The miracle tubers

Waiting for clouds on the poets’

Desolate days.


And she kissed the palm of my

Deranged hand

Swearing that beauty

Immaculate beauty


Like swan clouds.


Father beat the cow with his Billy club

And I was a fullback

Prancing about beneath heaven

In a thunderstorm



When Woody Allen


Farmers and stock brokers –

Who deserves more silver?

The kaleidoscope carrots

Mourning at Father Ebbecke’s

10 a.m. funeral

At the local brown chuch.

Wear pin stripes this winter

For you will make love beneath oak tree

As if you were a sarsaparilla.


Wretched some who wait

Others bobbing corks

And Boy Scouts marshmallows

Ready to shoot their B-B guns

At the sun


Remind me that tomorrow is Christmas

For I will exalt

Cursing the forgotten war

While praising French fries

And Tom Brady’s cute wife.


For such thought and illogic

A crew in white awaits me

Promising me sugar and lemonade this summer

Pink pills too

Since I watched the news yesterday

And three people were murdered in less than

5 acute minutes


A brilliantly lighted anchor woman

In her transparent rain coat

In the thunderstorm.


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