Paper-wheels in the storm.
turning over,
spinning crazy
like nobody's business.
Lopsided thoughts
tripping over each other,
tumbling forth from
a madman's neon-struck
mind ,
creating
avalanches of
garnet-dust,
gold-moon pollens,
and riverine letters
that wait to morph
into fly-away Canaries.
They circle his dreadlock head,once,
before gliding off
to wherever, and nowhere but.
Damn sweet of them, dont you
think?
Paper-wheels in the storm.
turning over,
spinning crazy
like nobody's business.
Fern-wood shadows linger faint against
the doldrum eyes of
the Little-magazine poet,
jay-walking into
a sleep-smudged seduction of
her pay-eve night.
The waves crash on over
her french-plait head,
creating
lipstick torsos, guitared
complaints, the
winking ghosts
of frills and guns and ink
and orchids in the sink.
They fall into her lap, once,
and sit there for a lifetime
before fading into
wherever, and nowhere but.
Damn sweet of them, dont you
think?
Paper-wheels in the storm.
turning over,
spinning crazy
like nobody's business.
Speak for the bench.
sweet peace of mind, or
Poetry?
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