image from pinterest.com
“There is no abstract art. You must always
start with something.”--Pablo Picasso.
Woke up curious four times
before I escaped my dreams,
or I think I did, as I gleefully
partook the rites of urination.
I brewed up some Earl Gray.
spiked with toenail jam,
stirred with an owl feather;
sipping it beneath my deck,
squatting on pancakes, listening
to the argument between rain
and my fiberglass roofing, sounding
like thousands of angels using the
deck cover as a toilet, filling the wetness
with the smell of Mandarin oranges,
allowing my mind’s crust to
wander & wonder--
Does yellow snow taste like
it looks? Does a metal fan blade
ever get indigestion? Are the creaking
hinges on my screen door proof
of a secret hinge code? What
does liberty smell like? Now
that watches can talk, do they
switch languages as you travel?
Does smog have the texture
of elm bark? Can thick fog sing
credible rap lyrics? When a heart
breaks alone in the forest,
can the ants hear it? Yes.
acid rain enables rust, but
can it tan skin?
anger look pink?
Do cold--blooded crea-
tures like to drink antifreeze?
What specific odor is associated
with genius intellect? If you stroke a car’s
hood, does it become aroused?
Does insanity have a
Does jealousy smell like fried
green tomatoes? Is stupidity
always dark brown & sticky?
Is a check legal if it is filled
out in frog’s blood? If you
habitually wear your sunglasses
on your posterior, do they finally
Hope sings anthems, and
red sells cars, but glass hammers
fear nails of all sorts.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub