Illogical pit stops
Waste deep in the forest
Infecting the shrine zone
Project our dark skies.
While under the curtain,
Where nothing is certain,
When staring at shark eyes,
The festival dies.
There’s no calibration
Or central location.
The cards are now telling a lie.
The wailing wind sings.
We’re out on the wings
Of these things we know
Never can fly.
And they tilt toward goodbye.
The statue of the laundress
stands in mute assessment.
The day crinkles like celluloid,
producing rodent sounds.
The church league wakes
with thoughts of holy toast.
Garage doors yawn mechanically.
The cool air spits colors.
Sly grass grows around the tree nub.
Somewhere a runner has stumbled,
ankle painfully swelling.
A blue nurse takes too many pills.
One stone in the old wall shifts,
changing everything.
The first word is written
by insects.
Len was a guy who’d get you anything,
komodo dragon eggs to diamond ring.
He’d get you tee times at the best golf course
or any drug you’d need from weed to horse.
He’d get you items home-made or imported.
He’d get you justice if you’d been extorted.
But folks say that his contacts got too weird.
And one day Len just up and disappeared.
Scraps on roof.
Vanishing pockets.
Has bin.
Shoot penguin out window.
Wood shoes need oil.
Baby’s circumference shrinking.
Head of rat.
Halt who stays there.
Muttering rice.
Lick the foursome.
Finite geography.
Passing in.
Sleeps above it.
Phase out handy.
Glass and free chain.
Once removed.
The playground sky brushed by in its amusement
as the birds united in swift flight.
The hard ground played its games of soft confusion
as hours, like flowers, grew petals of the night.