45*21

blue moon and this house with the leather window
mirrors my mom outside with a rake
my dad sneezes "oh shit!"
the old garage catches fire & the chief of police
he smokes a big cigar
my neighbors are millionaires but they drive
small cars. There is a heart beat
but it doesn't know its own, thinks it's gray
that is why the moon just is
not a cursory thought as leather is laced
the strychnine nightmares of a gambler
who's got nothing to lose but loss itself
a character on some shelf of life
never gets written into its novel
how many its does it take to screw in a libel
I bring myself to the brink the channel energy
elsewhere where I might know it goes
eyeballs wander in three directions
and your pulse is taken by the night nurse
that is always your curse
and it belongs in the cabin of stove stokers