Punk-as-fuck
cardinal,
lickity-
splitting,
practically
spits his red tousled
crest at the
driving rain.
Can you
even
handle—
going home to
write about that?
II.
Is it just me—
or does
this moment
always feel
like
the exception
to some rule,
chiseled into
rock (for
emphasis)
in one of those
foreign languages
you can read
but don't really
speak very well?
II.
Loose lips keep
sinking
ships,
as if
that
was the only
option.
III.
I keep hearing
my own
dumb voice
saying
"I like to mix it up."
Which, it seems
to me, implies
a next time.
So, wow,
maybe
we
are
in agreement
about
something
after all?
IV.
Perfectly balanced
On the shoulders of giants,
A man
So small you can't even see him—will keep
Slamdunking
the same
clock into every new blue
ray player,
until he's rich
with old.
When he dies, he hopes
to come back
a bird.
clock into every new blue
ray player,
until he's rich
with old.
When he dies, he hopes
to come back
a bird.
