Prose Poem Written at the Sandra Simonds Town Hall

I went to quiz the simpletons. They gave weeds to the sailors made of shattered meat. Gracious bones were stoned along the crosswalk, lightly tossed. I was half minted by the ice cubes. I answered the questions that were put to me, like a lime green Porsche. I wondered to what extant there was a phenomenal tantrum in my boredom. I was losing a great deal of numbers. According to war, there are starfish.

False prophets wander old continents whimpering for Tim. Tim was a decent fellow totally devoted to being prophet-worthy. The scam of it. Tim was something. He lacked everything but his name, Tim.

He loaned me his wet throat. He said his goat-throat needed a solution to a tremendous problem. Um, I said, annoyed. Trembling sump pump tongue? Indeed. In those doomed moments the moon of my mind was out in the night of my memory. Was the room dimmed? I removed the light switch and changed the equation. O, baby, sword fish.

Here!

The simpletons met me in a pent-up emotion. Notice that their board games are always venison compared to my regular, human meat. Fine, I say, I will season myself. They want me to gather weird, crystal nuts from the forest floor. I put the custard in the bowl before I put it in my stomach. This stupid ice cream. The head rests on the not totally cherry-saddled, thin butt.

In the mouths that fellows choose to leach onto in certain violent emergencies, specific curse words. Those curses migrate onward, "tortoise" style, slowly becoming a new Bible that people wink at. I moved forward. My arms spread out hardcore! Dumb ducks in the St. Louis punk scene.