The Color of Money is White

bootsy: a blast past half mast.
cracker barrel clad and sad stacked
hat off track. black milk sounds like
fermented dino farts,
the show never starts,
a clear cut spam artist
sending out the parts of a bad methodology
the lot them could use a eulogy.
.

slice it

any way you like it
and the lemon will be
multiplication tables with spanish mice
running around them, sneaking up on the pencil cups
and tape measure eraser drawer
, a comprehensive state and measurable
beast ,being a parmesian sneeeze extremely blurry

bootzy

on the step up
the rest go to get set up
and rest up
in the coffin farm down the wasted spaces
refilling the gourds and greaseing the carrot
axels n the chariots of fire

the gray mornings

inculcate a sonnet
or at least a tiny fly, crashing into the floor,
maybe hungry, maybe brine got
in all of those eyes, or one big eye,
not that it matters, but its a clerical issue
which must be resolved whether
one big eye with lots of balls or one big ball with lots of eyes. . .
now everyone is confused as to whether the reason is none of these.

vote the wrote

murmurr they spoke,
flying gains of sand
makeing the desert into the promised land
a banana of oil under our feelers, walking sneakers

the enablement of essence

lipid highways at the start of the day
limitless cat eye sunrises send us grabbing
out into nether-space for the glasses
the bottle top stoppers creak and grown
on tires outlandish and frumious
as the bandwagon is snatched from the clutches
of a heron disguised as a minnow, gone mental,
friends with the mussel,
disused to the trappings of a society on the edge
of water, too, the brink, where it has
banks upon blanks upon blanks upon banks

squish the mission

feel the breeze? on your tongue?
thats cause your mouth is hung
open, stuck, locked even
with iron ore, rust, tetris in the morning
tennis in the evening, when the sun goes down
I hate it when that evening sun goes down
I love it when that even keel goes down
and the captain goes down with the ship and lifts
her up and bails her like any real captain would do

sold the lode

rotten potato visions
keeling over into precision
barfing, the scent of what is there and cant
be seen makes us seethe and
breathe bat omens into the neighbors
homes and grown zones.

I say let them be a burnt pot to piss in
let them agonize on a minatour clomping
jigs like an apostale by the canal the ear drains to

load the toast

taken all my money
put it in the bank
want all my money
stuck up in the bank
could get more money back
if my bank was really a bank
but they not
they just a thief
in the bullrush

333 Kelvin today

candle sticks stuck
in a plastic flow to the bent wall
are the disgusted representation
of my exterior state
sweltering in the city.
And I thought this was supposed to
be canada
not havana.


the cat tells me,
also with her candle languidness
that she beacons to the wick,
always ready to burn up in chemothical mischief,
so she just lights there as a living log
, a testament to the pavement
of which the concept of temperature
cannot apply.

74

a lime in the light
is drying up tight
under the scrutiny
the fast pace of ants conveying routinity
to the floor always a floor above the next

slide eyes
pealed tongues
ramparts apart and the cat gone beserk
sitting upside down
i n a place, the palace is leaning
and the wisdom annealing
, the wind is blowing
and the clouds and gowning up
in the waiting room, waiting for god to move
over and let a rover take over head
and stock of the situation
what is it that is sitting, listening and biting