The Tuesday Plea!

There are a chunk of ideas in my noggin.
On the one hand I want a horn
to blow a few names into the air: Tom Koontz,
Max Greenstreet, and Kate, and Jen-Gi, and
whatnot.

There, in the rainy windshield, the news
sort of tears apart like foggy bread.
Remiss I would be if I didn't mention me.

On yet my fifth wide hand, I find a wheel
that spins in the manner of a spoked,
spinning wheel. This wheel makes me
nervous. It bothers me not a great deal,
but always, and seriously.

For this reason,
the night moves forward and
the day keeps beeping
as it backs
up blondly through the ally.

Oh God, Thunderstorm! Save me from
this Poetry! O release me from the
the dewy grip of this Insane
Language!