Parade

 

Hero’s journey  
stone-grey  
still-
 
in crying  
 
pondscum  
relief
 
we are the world
all along  
the western front
 
a well to the deep  
of a statue’s sight….
 
a moral compass  
time warp  
zone,
 
the sky
 
with        zero       reaction
firmament  
grey…
 
that gold display
of the march-hare gods
on their northbound  
gaslit measures
 
(a nightshade  
nihilist
capitalist treasure
 
on carpetbagger lips  
a coin twist
never land
nitwit mole,
fer pleasure)
 
a desolate-searchin’
 
’em train-sold  
hollers:
 
“soul,
and slumber…
 
that’s tomorrow talkin’
them Norfolk Southern
funny money
battle cry numbers”
 
’em catfish ropes  
squirmin’ under
the black stranger’s  
knife skin coat –
  
 
track suit whims
at stick disgrace
with the speed of
swiftly creaking
hand face work-
 
a pace & crank
under the stream
and
after the storm
of a postscript age,
 
 
broadcast spawn
from the gauzy haze
with lines to fog  
both nose & dog-
 
 
GONE
 
apotheosis  
reeling straw
and hitching the bridge
across a valley of sin
 
(through the skull
of life again
 
in all its side gig  
pine bug point)…
 
this glorious covering
waging range
all along  
the rumble of
this western joint…
 
no reaction
(nor solution)
 
for that
journey of God
on petrified eyes
squirtin’ pondscum  
tears
 
and the time sleeps
 
      
           still
 
in        permanent        grey
 
staging a train
on the well of the deep