Look, there goes a canned thought—squint you eyes against the drummer, up just a little—caress it in it’s stout. In between chews, our teeth whisper clipped phrases through the pins—cut the edges—right. Just like that. Hear it tare in a loss of being or oblivion—whichever you prefer. Sink in the pond, where algae over cures, as we rise in pleas. Quick, click the heels of those worn down 80’s shoes. I pray they didn’t blow the mine…only flushed the boogey off the floor, in the cell below. And we all hate to break the triangles that run holes in our faces, flowed to the beat of a canoe. Flip. Flop. Spit. Spat. On the old barn door. Lunge! Wake. Bark! Duck! You’ve got bullets on your hemline—there’s a needle out back. Don’t you see it? A little more up—closer to the corpse holding the purse. You must hurry before the sunrise shapes the kisses and picks in stomach’s teachings. Oh no, it seems as if black smears align that palled face. Allow me; I’ve got some of that good H2O in the hatch—with just a tiny drop of zinc or two. For the solutions are g+e= never mind me. One could only hope to never be a goat, but we all eat the cheese.