French fry forearm tendons.
Contract. Release.
Tambourine plink ping breathing
diet soda can. Big gestures
when I lean back, clad black at
the stroke of midnight arms
falling palms down facing, plink
again. Neck roll concentric crackling
like footsteps on shattered glass.
All for the world.

All for the world I think,
as some wild June thunder busts it up.
See that puff
of smoke that rises there, as I exhale thusly?
Oh, it’s all full of French Canadian clown music
entangled in fine gravel dusk memories.
Where we stood inside the time stream.
Watch it float up and away taking lost spectacle
elsewhere. Shredded memories no good when
the tall grass has known death and resurrection
time and again
since the slipping away
of wishes, days, and clock tics.

A can song fades to black..
Elysian Mysteries thunder as embodiment
It’s different to be me.
Nothing anyone
would understand.