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Poem

And blondes whistle (mightily)
Groove and rhythm supplied
By their accidental guardians
Feigning lock-down on these
Rancid, insipid rugged shores
It's what's expected
The triumphant stasis
The settling down of
Benign expectations
Mixed coarsely with the
Vinegar-garnished
Toxic waves disguised as hope
Fame and glamor
The settling in of those
Who (plead) their mere existence
Laconic persistence
To roam and dare
And acquiesce to forms
Much disparate from themselves
Where and who were they
Before the fall
Their (coerced)  lament
Wrapped and pressed
By an indignant Creator
Lie your amble shamble
Down square
With the cracks which
Suckle the (greasy)  heat
No scars to spare
Envelopes with deranged matriculation
Puncture the remaining pores
Now everyone, even them
Can wade (deep)  into December
Without barometric shift
Gastronomic rift
Or the means to remind yourself
Where the days have hidden
Somewhere plain yet hard to find
Wake me once if your pleasure
Grinds the senses weakly
Wake me twice if all's redeemed
The pageant gone
And once again the blondes
Tune their vacant chords
Hustling into naked ensembles
Flush with gravitas
Conduct the many
Swollen from the vagaries
Of plucking
One too many strings.

(9/6/06)

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