Thursday, September 11, 2003
I made a little mother out of mimes,
old Styx tee shirts,
and a bit of middle-aged llama futures.
I once saw Gary Chandling on TV.
That's when the troubles were too pockmarked
to be resplendent,
awash in gas, but distant enough
to keeps me coughing
and rooting for all
the animals on the farm.
Matter is every dried family that sews for a living.
They're bound to disappear: power to my feelings.
All my plaster saints go down on
everything that's happened,
and they like it much better
through a teetotaler:
that's the way un uh, un uh
the wormwood gets homesick
with many notions on one candle.
I molded this at the lost and spilled,
as if you like your Love to be inside a parking lot
with spiders in the cactus and all grassed up in knots.
It's so YOU to become as a garnish is.
The Horrible Actions(tm)
Matter takes up while spackling the interns
we call tradition.
Knife, Fork, Many Mo and Jack,
set on the mantle to be singin' to the crack?
Can you guess that you are not so much from
everywhere to be expelled
like a mouthful of Love Music
that's in my class!
It's my brand of new coat
to enjoy these pleasant burning sensations, mother said,
because another horrible infestation
watches the car sink into an off-stage swamp.
It's rocks and tree explained the whips of potatoes.
and like Nixon's womanly arts,
thoughts from a sleepy person have some weight.
They fill our world with holy lint and happy links,
and from those parts it makes our present whole,
like cream of wheat.