don’t try, because
it’s that alliteration thing again,
and it’s stuck inside my head
that god dammed devil’s den
and i’m not quite ready to start the day
as the smell of middle age lingers
i have a mind
but to map this mayhem
is madness, metaphorically speaking
grabbing guns and driving through
crazy cat conspiracies
it’s a herd in cadence
leading to a camouflaged cabaret
with words split in
two-thirds
blocked, rocked
and well-stocked
hidden in culture shock
these words have no meaning
until written, or spoken twice
and there are too many
bankrupt beer bottles
burgeoning atop my desk
for the morning is usually so
foggy, frustrated
it’s noise unbalanced
with necks in nooses, living naked
as the labored breathing of
latter-day legends
echoes down the hall
created in and out of time
head rhyme,  trapped
in blissful oblivion
and I have these
pessimistic dreams
wrapped in post script
waiting in paralysis for panegyrics
it’s novel pageantry, an earmarked election
as we sit earnestly awaiting
sudden elation, anticipation abating
swimming with mechanical sharks
through the blue screen
that stretches past eternity