it's hallucinate elucidate cogitate blind date don't be too late just can't wait
time once again
here on the street cleaning urchins come singing your secret tune
hour of aggressive would be reclaimed power
and all you got to do in order to win a brand new countenance
is successfully evade all past remonstrance, and allow Miss Xenophobe
to shake her elastic tragedy in your stupefied rarefied unidentified paranoia's face,
and if the bed bugs bite too hard
send them packing once and for all
with a hearty dose of Doctor Caucasian's Comatose Adipose
the repellent of all right thinking sagacious dazed crazies.

the big rigs are jury rigged and the doughnut hole just let
its center rise way too high that now the ceiling
feels its eloping with it,
while down in the shaft
finger puppets attempt to overwhelm the draft, and little darling
just got violently accosted by the grippe,
and she never gave Satan any lip, but her favorite thumb rang
the sad bell so long it became just another mundane digit.

in the convoluted garbage chute in which all the guardians play,
any philosophy can hustle introverts who flirt with becoming converts
long enough to become extroverts that can stand on their heads
as the traffic disintegrates without the proper time to whimper.

little darling pressed her child's face against a warrior's moon
and the resultant scar tissue now hosts its own
public affairs show on a station we can only mention
in deft sleight of ear passing.

please desist if you won't assist and don't expect me to exist
unless i can every now and then resist your interminable unintelligible
decibels that deny my cantankerous blood flow.

little darling ignited herself in front of the sunday best folks,
she burned sweet and in tandem,
as the street cleaning urchins
belched on demand
and the tsunami screamed i want my dry land mommy
and pronounced all would be amphibians
somewhat
okay.

scott
florence, oregon
11/11/2010

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Photo of Scott Wannberg by Sheree Rose