Well, can’t lift my head off the page—tattoo’d
my eyes look out: roll right, roll left.
The sanded plain. Blurred blacks in corners—
most likely the subject, the object
(with all-do-respectively, good sirs. )
Though like I said, I can’t move.
None of us can. I’m merely guessing.
Merely forehead stamped.
Blackheads we conglomerate meaning,
serve eyes who typewriter-slide in socks—
nearly-snake were it not for the hawk hop--
the give away: the one-legged-jig at the end.
The heads who slow their beaded tickers
at the occasional: don’t trip-on-your-
momma-comma; my gist-fist period;
the crusin-for-a-bruisin dash—
scarecrows point them onward.
Yes—onward from parental punctuation/genesis capitalization: all lies!
i want to Verb up! these perfectly spaced out times!
mr romans chains have rusted