[untitled]

I was feeling the floor tonight

for the fluid revolution of time around God’s handle,

raven in the stable calling never more. 

I couldn’t resist Poe tugging on my big toe and pining me, take me dancing. 

We salter down the melting hall,

leaves throuncing about our buckled feet,

skip the jitters in the frost, and spin the riddle sunken lost,

clocks all tossed from the former bell glass belfry,

bogart nook and copper piping oxidize and rust,

Earth’s crust palpitating madly,

hands entwining sadly spoken thoughts of goodbyes

and tomorrow the sorrowful pause

of love’s parting, happens even among the stars,

little insects smoking danger past desert morgues,

hyper-context after shocks of Rockian grandeur,

metal poison highway dragons mighty and magnificent,

Maleficent gold rimmed leather bat wings beating down the daffled night,

the crippled gin fry, after hours bar fly, soup in my ladle, curry in my eye,

mental spoke wheels turning film reels, light beams swirling,

cosmos unfurling rapidly before me tidal wave momentum,

carbonite theme of righteous motorcade daffodils peeking from the mourner’s plight,

dawn’s first light peaking on the frost, reflected mute and blinding,

patience riding Bell Brook, cycling songs about lady looks,

crooked back roads with no lines and riding through the forest

there’s something about Fawn Grove that makes me bang a u-ee,

Southbound out of town and through the fabled line,

Mason-Dixon cotton flow through corn field meadow,

hay bale cylinders scattered specifically across my belly,

Heaven’s rebeled battle cry, God sighing steadfast, resolute. 

Saint Patricia does not search the answers, she trusts in what they tell me,

thoughts befell me kindly in my time of aftermath driving home form Box Hill,

the Bel Air Mill lit dimly from the rooftop,

Lavalier lady mannequins posing casually on Main Street,

Kimmie Way and Harford Day School,

Christian strawberry fair, free song birds sample March

and rise benevolent sons and daughters of the Holy Father,

anticipated anselm of absolute contrition

just as Poe collapses face down in Bolan’s gutter, puddle of vomit despair,

the moon glares reproachingly at my willingness to move on so soon,

it seems out of tune with good nature,

the state of my face here is sore from laughing with the girl at High’s Dairy Store

about glow stick parties and monsters in the fax machine,

the mental sheen of day tackles my brain waves furiously

to pumiced ground sidewalk, biting pavement,

tasting revenge served spoiled,

tar-ridden soil spilled milk on the chickens,

blackberry pie in the kitchen,

sin sister sidelines of rover and grin-faced,

cold hand-wash, water pumps in Nantahala Forest.