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Spotted from
Afar
Plant-like
Bobbing toward
The university
In the
Pale light
What frail creature
Beneath it
Seen
Close
Up
Furtive
Glances
Trapped
In
Stone
Halls

The magician waved his hand
A grave hush descended
This was the same moronic grin
They’d seen on the sign coming in

Place the Sizzle Sticks in
Your ears
And the images will become
More clear
The imagination of
A voyeur
The recalibration of your
Jittery system
Sit calmly as the Sizzle Sticks
Heat up
This process will make you more
Wittery
In social situations
Your perspiration will smell
Like a mango candle softly burning
Beneath each armpit
Never remove the Sizzle Sticks
If confronted by burning flesh/hair
Odor, disturbing imagery,
Ocular regeneration, or insistent outside contact
Once you’ve been aptly Sizzled, ears may
Protrude or stretch farther than usual but
Perceptual awareness will have trebled

Too many turtles
For one busted barrel
A single trusted turtle
For five in a whirl
The barrel rolled over
By a hobo gone feral
Gleaming turtle shells
By the moon by the shore
Turtle in the belly
Of a hobo on the snore

North wind blows
Past boots in the snow
Tucking in tracks
Has a ghost flown this way
Swift in the unknown
Whips and gusts
Greycoated sentry

Whose occupants
Flit
A giant fist over it
Mini muddles
In microscopic day
A curious eye
Like le soleil
Speck of food
In blurry mouth
Squeaking that
Is a shout
Sudden swat
At tiny house
Hand is caught
Fingers fingered
As cause without

Ever since we were alone
In that parking lot
I knew something was up
By the signal you made
And the squealing tires
Is someone spying on you
Did he just get fired
I’ve got nothin’ but a chicken
Bone to pick with you
When we had our first picnic
It’s like you were playing a trick
With what I was trying to say
Well that’s ok
I’ve got nothin’ but a chicken bone
To pick with you

She don’t want you
She don’t need you
Your pickup ain’t a pick me up
But you gotta fix her van
Because it’s your carburetor
And she’ll still hate you later
She don’t love you
She don’t want your breath on her
Even if it is the death of you
In the paper, it’s just a peanut butter smudge for you
You’ve been country fried
For a long long time
But that don’t mean you ain’t country true

A Digi-plant
For the boring bits
And a Digi-plant
For the drama
A tiny bite-sized
Stick
That slides into your cranium
To separate
And codify
The antipodes
Better than drink
Or electrodes
Keep your stick
In your wallet or
Purse
When living life but
Would rather
Rehearse

We were going to make it, he promised
But I could tell he was hungry and tired
The moon rolled around, neither farther nor closer

Then I knew, finally, this was a dream, horses don’t talk
Even if they’re hungry and tired

Real life had impinged, then we were taking a car instead
To our dream destination