sometimes I’m in a prose mood

sometimes I think in verse

sometimes I think about sbonkrood

and wonder if sicker is worse

turbidites live to destroy me

diorite sits in the hall

sometimes they try to deploy me

but I see the little in all

I was that infamous tailor

I was that traitorous drudge

I never asked to be paler

or grayish like pumice and sludge

some people think that I’m lucky

some people say life is a bitch

the oil slick drop is just ducky

twenty-five lives bait and twitch

twin typists try to be caring

keeping the lovers at bay

some have a beef with me staring

they don’t know I have nothing to say

in life there are winners and whiners

the bright sky peeks in at us all

through windows of dealers and diners

through somebody’s broken-door stall

it sees what the little don’t notice

what dealers gave up for a cinch

it hears of the cane and the lotus

of the story I’ve wanted to lynch

sometimes I think about staying

in a gallery pretty and green

sometimes I see the sky praying

perhaps to forget what it’s seen

this story, it wants to be ended

my eyes want to stop speaking rhymes

and the senselessness I have befriended

is tithing and telling of times

Artemis looks on with distance

with pentacles sewing inside

I have met no unearthly resistance

I have nothing more to confide