The triangle boys bring rectangle toys and the bone kids don’t know what to wear.

Somewhere crazed youth might fall from the trees and the brothers curse them underground.

The guitar has no strings and the mute choir sings, an unhearingly passable sound.

When the beat cops arrive, they continue to jive, and the party roars into full swing.

Then the birds join right in and the wolves leave the den with the prospect of grabbing a wing.

It’s a dream of the Monterey park, LSD melting things in the dark.

Later on, in a spirited mode, perhaps you’ll meet a god on the road.