While trees
are always caught, in their easy gallop,
the
taken are too.
So the takers and
the took!
The
bashful
and the rose’s pipe as
well.
And they that parcel out.
The
half-ripened and
the know-it-all’s brew.
See those switched,
switchers and the
widow’s tiny mites.
Gray haired,
no haired,
black haired
and blue haired.
The sample’s spry.
The South Korean
North Korean
South Dakotan
North Dakotan
Hopi
and the lovely Nava
jo.
The kicked-in
heads of
the drunk and
put against the curb.
Savior’s be-no-more.
Yet sweet, they strike an
amnemonic pose.
The Bishop’s sign
behindhand letters
late in the evenings,
with Father Festus and
ol’ Colonel House.
William’s Spouse is added in.
Shots at Ludlow,
militia called.
(I’d rather have
Bob Hope make me
laugh. Wouldn’t you?)
Women and children
mowed right down.
Go to Westport,
get way-out to sea.
Flounder’s
flapping,
starved of
air.
Men in long-boats,
Sicilian
spaghetti sauce,
floating fathomless within
their minds.
(sign’s say yield, while the doter’s oddly
pleasant notes, are
winning all the Kinilaw
goat-meat, swelling
in mammoth piles —
enough to fringe a monarch’s yawning moat)
Don’t forget to
wear your coat and gloves.
Push through,
get some!
Will you join the babies
or slice them-up in Lilliputian
pieces?
(bagged and dumped)
Funny fingers
gone.
Women giving care.
Surgeons and all the
Sturgeon’s caught and
finely grilled.
Perch in schools, a great green
assemblage.
Right-near that Northern dam
of Horsetooth reservoir.
Clouds of mirth,
card’s of seasons.
Son’s of wayward
books,
all shredded (rather a propinquity
to the commodious, or the
bright-blue sheets well-undone).
Remarkable seas,
diamond’s rough and
grasses’ finished,
though still growing.
Toddler’s smiling at
itsy-bitsy plastic shapes.
Welcome the
taste of
monastic beavers
and a tinkle’s dash.
May I drizzle upon
the morning’s dew? The
forgotten grapes always
do!
They
argue for a smoosh and
vinely finish.
Last squares of the carpet’s
dancing, dancing on
the radio’s catch of
a fluke. Swimming on a breeze.
(planet’s build on
entrances dug)
Never.
Never.
Never
done.
– gishi bian
3 December 2015
1:21 AM MST USA
Thinking of the
tragic drop-box.
Babies left
in
space.
Quietly harmed!
Indeed.
