Morning Stream....

Overdrawn banks,

fed up accountants,

starving children

What’s for breakfast this evening...

crows fly overhead making sound like a reed on an oboe.

I prefer the clarinet,

only after some cognac from an aged bottle with the label faded.

Hop scotch four square ball made of rolled up socks,

in fourth grade I was far smarter than I am now.

Got caught up, laid up that was the problem, one lead to the other or was it the other that lead to one?

Grown man feeling sorrow would like to talk to Shakespeare about love and loss, might even take a swing if the bank vault weren’t locked and the pretty girl didn’t hold the key.

Saturday’s silence fostered new behavior for all except those with more than fifty years.

Put me into a trance song, my dying words, my dying words on a modulator echo effects.

Just don’t let them be in vain or fall on a broken microphone, please.

This is my roaming stream, not necessarily rolling downhill,

 sometimes uphill to a shopping cart full of ripened Plantain ready for the deep fryer.

Ahh, breakfast on the morning of my execution, never have I tasted juice so sweet or eggs so runny.

Disaster befalls us all at one point or another,

for me disaster was the point to fall for so I lept like a court jester to entertain those who cannot afford the theater.

Fell in the gutter like a vaudeville actor but harder and without a spotlight which I craved so deeply,

but I was the spotlight operator mainly on Tuesday and Nepday in betweem three and four.

On Nepday we all went down to the shore and wrote our darkest fears in the sand and watched them get washed out to sea by a container ship.

Languid lumbering beast,

laboring under expectation and waiting for some form of validation.

But that day would come under a never moon,

solitary sullen swollen nasal passages from too much use.

Everyday ride gets a diamond ring for Christmas, Christians riot in the street over the golden ox.

Saviors can be mutilated but everone likes some gold around their neck, in a Trance cannot dance but in outer space.

Lost momentum for a second my muse fills me like a pail of water,

Windsor knot my choice of apparel, colorful noose still holds weight, don’t be fooled.

Smelling salts could never wake me but the smell of Patchouli I can detect a mile away,

beach trip with strange girl who seems to like me, we lay on Venice’s beach and disapppear into each other through the eyes.

Sad day for my libido was 1998, on a wing not a prayer that I’d make it,

in a mental foxhole when the war was won by neither side I had dirt thrown on top of me.

Ta-dah! You missed me you missed me now you gotta diss me,

twice cause I’m kinda slow watching TV shows about stuff,

not violence just as lame, well, yes.

I only agree when I’m tired of the conversation, blue tooth, red tooth, no tooth, put down the phone already the show’s about to start.

Stay for the opening credits you just never know when your high school picture will be taken out of context and make sure you pause before you get on the plane, I hope the pilot has a pulse and is still warm because he is in charge.

He is in charge

He’s in

In charge.

She.

Never lose faith in your ceiling fan, to push the warm air down to your cranium.

Always check thrice before crossing me, just a warning, I’m a baby rattlesnake, I empty my venom on first strike,

cuss you out or stomp you out it’s anyone’s guess don’t even know myself.

This stream was written in a Trance with a beat like the heart of a skydiver,

opened a Cosmic Gate at age five or was I shown?

Saw things I cannot even describe properly,

dreams ceased before my teens.

Have much to show and tell.

and the stream reaches the ocean.