Thursday, April 26, 2007

Put That Radio Down

Ganglia, march on hill,
seize migratory lions,
element-off their gastro-poses,
I can hear their stomachs waking.

As ass cheeks are round
and orbicular, my threats
swept up in a rubbing motion,
put it this way,

they cleaned the entire house.
And I cleansed mangled
light from the lighthouse,
where else? Ganglia,

would you, could you
form a brain, make it rain,
brush up on stumping
and run for office?

Holy fuck, I’d vote for
you. I’d canvas like the radius
of a streetlight’s possible
spread. There is no method.