Poem #66

Disband bandit trumpet boxes.
Undertow serifs rift the nightshirt bosom.
Looping back the scarecrow lost sight of his trueness.

When the widow walks fill with toxins, we will rid poetry of humanness.
Through regurgitation the chasm of greatness can be skirted, never sexed, only ever fingered around its edges.
Ask questions in jukebox literati,
Rebrand the mouth signs if you are scared by the answers.

Ok’d for the nth time I bicycle through highway cornbread,
Roster new designated hitters,
Brigand the metric system sophists,
Land face down, amid the thorny chaff of teenage waste, after
Evil knievelling garden gnome riddles, spaces where oomph is impotently flattered.

Grisly were the faces that came from the glade just beyond life.
I shifted, decided on a long con with low payoff.
Somewhere god is in his union break and traffic cones distract
The celestial commute.

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