A little of po, a little of em. —Yo. Yeh? Write ‘em.
A menagerie of the usual and infrequent frightens
but I yam the born host I’ll have Shosean fight ‘em
put ‘em in check. Closed fist, open palmed sex
I put on my good face and wait for this lunar
new year. I can’t wash my hair any sooner.
But I don’t (co)operate often. When I do, persons emote.
John A Smith’s spirit chanced my farcebook
I tag him in all my notes.
Therein lies his grey-eyed look (it hurts so)
Discarding our woes into the thick of the smoke
Sash ‘round my waist, I shoulder my mâché coat
and make stances. Smells of sulfur fill the head
Posturing throughout the lion’s song
Young & old clapping, but the sounds are wrong.
Their palms exploding. The drum, cymbals & gong
colliding. In the morning, trucks sweep up the red
while I lay immovable in my bed.
