image by Tony Luciani
“The most wasted of all days is one
without laughter.”--e.e. cummings
my shoes fit not
many times post-yogurt
(no spit from sandals)
old man toenails because
in a mason jar gather gleam.
knows no one like troubled
church mice, their claws broken
pining for flight to nestle
in christ’s beard suspended
from penitent arches, wanting
to lick the painted tears.
loam-deep fingerless gloves as
concrete dwellers wine in their whine,
damn too busy app-pursuing to count
(ladybug’s dots) on table clothes
in the outhouse blue purity.
why do sheep weep as llamas cry,
(wolf masks dominate) october’s
last gasp as socks from crippled
dogs are launched at the moon,
barely a midnight slit.
after death sex lingers
with dignity, necklaced in poetry,
pursuing pedophile priests living
in cloud cracks, praying between
the lines, scourging themselves
with feather dusters as cherubs clap,
holding still wings of plastic blood-red.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub