Every time I work it out,

I feel compelled to

cargo-load

—those box cars get me every time–

mistaking suitcases

for refrigerators

and pinching

inches of fitness

that re-tire waste

…

mostly stifling the urge for

go scream shakes, though

—with a lip band that breaks with inspiration–

because: shakes.

They give me the opposite

of brain-freeze, and that’s

a shame, really,

–and exercise for another day–

since “the” matter

is a dish

best scooped—

cold.

You are the Muse…

bowing heart-strings

& remixing song

& I, accordingly,

composer of

Notes

— lyrics

to lend rhythm,

–lines

that transcend staff

–measure

of two halves

& melody

of natural whole

~

unending concert

in ampitheatre

(4,2)

she was the wolf

that cried

“girl”,

the pumpkin lover

sure to beat the carriage home,

the napping blueblood who

rolled over

in lieu of kisses

–eschewing organic fruit for

GMO since she knew damn well

bigger was better, and

a sure cure for living with systemic

pesticide

— the mutant green—

ever

mindful of impending run on glass coffins,

she trip-trip-trapped

across bridges

–aflame behind her,

a burning pyre of pick-up Styx

that had gone up like a pile

of pick-up Styx

–just like that–

careless of gnomes,

trolls, and ogres, all,

but mouse-fearful of pachyderms

she embraced blackout conditions

when available and

employed catapults to sling Stones

on the down low—

…

–at a gun fight—

…

–at a proper fi-fie-foe fed fire

…

all the while fermenting bad apples in

cider witch

offed the less hardy

(in cider = truth)

but not her royal ass pain

–valuing rest beyond

formula she

was good to leave

secret rooms locked,

for heaven’s sake

climbing 500

miles of stares

instead, God Bless America,

and presenting word jumbles

when it felt just rite—

(presently)

to riddle you this.

If year needs a bump,

hop, skip, or jump

–the month–

not the gun,

and add to it

1

day just for leaping,

in joy,

and in faith,

at the chance

–it’s a rare one—

savor the date,

to jump start your muse

with a rope swing

to lake,

from a ship

–on a cruise,

through hoops twisting

8

bar blues

–the bandwagon–

helps keep the time,

that’s leaping and bounding

like frogs do in slime,

–from grandest

to quantum–

it’s a helluva stretch,

a

21

Jump street

concludes this—

I guess.

 
I like to create

it’s growing—

so?

(you say)

Sow what

you say,

I’ll

till you…
 
 
from arts & letters

will you,

from Dell & bract, I’ll

thrill you,

to seed in short

terms

tend you,

in florid long, I’ll

send you,

vines entwined, I’ll

pen you

in lines, and rose,

de-fenceless

exposed to storms

so scent-less

found in the

I

a calmness,

greenhouse grown

–you’ll flourish…

indigenous with

wind-driven word

–a forest

controlling a climb

of reason and rhyme

–sow sporous.