Left-handed bowling alleys of the future
will become sudden glory things one day.
The roads that drove the tribe to next to nowhere
will be rerouted, find another way.
The pins that fall are most akin to soldiers
in an army of widespread despair.
In nightmares the desert always smolders.
What war can we possibly win there?
It’s a seven-ten split,
and the Earl don’t give a shit.
The Head Pin Temple Lanes don’t make the news.
But Buddha still wears multicolored shoes.