POEM

Skeleton beside this bearded mandrake; 
headlights on it like poleaxes barely obscured 
in the woodpile. Anomaly limbs 

picking up on cold shoulders. What kings & queens 
we are in these gutted goldmines! What walloped 
my kneecaps like a slapping mast 

against a tempest sent my Human Downpour 
through a bolt-hole of miscellanies where my
Future Old Self, my Grandfather Opiate 

of Follicleless coiffure will still be too bomb; 
too torn like paupery dirndl; shorelines’ coil waves 
like shortfalls; carcass’s blinker like coals heaped upon 

the head of a jester. These youthful legs, now, 
pinpricks the inflated zeppelin of time’s unflattering mock, 
so where is my Ballroom Posse? 

Dance, dance, dance, Skeletons! Falling over 
the balustrade, half-life spilled out, our druthers 
complete.