LACE ON THE TARMAC
Everyone expects that, since Dennis
the Shit got kicked off board, the boys've
been stagnating fat, but
it's only a chicken, a chicken of the sea,
stemming from a cliché that never wavers.
Someone strumming the normed wheedle
sent me a classified ad alone,
in an envelope, postmarked in Spokane,
but without a return address or any other trace of i.d.
It read, "Boredom is the kingdom / of my true love's eyes."
Let, then, this chicken in irascible, transubstantial, and benign Spokane
give gesture and demonstrance throughout the land.
Let red-footed soldier and slick-footed elf
climb up, aboard, and pledge themselves
to fight for the chicken and its wing.
The jargon, that day, can all be tossed away.
Pastor Orpheus will no longer be an old oaf.
We'll bull and thunder under Imaginary Lucifer's Big Top,
featuring two rare red panthers: "Little Mindless," and "Fertile Timeless."