IT WAS A SIGN THAT GAVE ME PAUSE
I found myself taking the target off the wall
as the stars wander close to the vest of syndication
no 2 crabby toad sucking vengeance breeding
stemming from a formula buried 10 feet below
in the slow lane of murmurous psychology
I watch the honeysuckle unpruned and sagging
between the hobbling and the passionate atmosphere
evacuating the entire front of buoyancy
before a furious tide swings into action
shuffling was not going to help my cause
a mule on the bridge turned plowing into philosophy
a sewing basket lost to imperial design trimmed to whale size
a wave pattern crushed between doors of perception
mud flaps spilled into a kind of juvenile treachery
upright and naked when cowardice is my last refrain
there was a judgment nailed to my backside
sleep took a powder in the moonlight
right angles wheeled and watchful down to the letter
Jethro Tull was found on the wagon of lost fleshy promises
no flame large enough to reach milking day
a particular heartless astonishment bent on straddling
when no one heard the shape of liquid dry up
fear could point toward rapt absorption of musical squatting
wide and waiting for holy conformation as windows
take a fresh direction as roosting becomes a common outcome
tree to cut 4 ways to Sunday best shining onward
as rest comes to signify solidarity of hollow purpose
there is one bluff left to rise the clumps of lamplight believers
I can nuzzle indifference with a wink and a moan
gripping a grave with a slant more square
than backed into bleeding shapes of California bearing
down on trembling in an upstream style of blowing juvenile transgression
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