Lull a bye
(goodnight little angels good night)

Some people hide under rocks so long they can’t stand to be seen. They like sitting on docks with their heads in the stocks picking the locks and poisoning clocks they would rather grow cold and be mean. Those people stare in despair they hide in their lairs catch you unawares and attempt to convince you their lives aren’t obscene.

Poets like humping our wares daring the stares sometimes we like to puff and blow breeze. We are children at heart run through by darts lost loaded on a river of steam just singing to them all lull-a-bye and goodnight and when the bough breaks we come clean.

Some folks won’t even show they just run for the dough they are sprinters for pork and for beans. Those rounders go to charm school so they won’t look the fool at the debutante ball when they stroll down the hall and they wish they were forever sixteen.

When the poets come out and the night light closes about and the leaden wind howls and sings; When the pages get loose and do loop de loops, when the whole world looks like a scene; Are you on the guest list tonight or afraid of the light do you croon just as well as you dream? Can you still do the zoo? Or walk on the moon? Have you learned how to puff and blow breeze?

Poets stride into the moonlight lunar eclipse bright sometimes we even puff up a bit and blow breeze. We bank like gliders and sliding night riders dream hanging by a note and a gleam. Poets study books write songs with hooks and flow sideways into the slipstream.

Some hi-fliers parachute by day they leap but can’t even bray they just crash and never careen. Other folks are stuck by their calabashes like ghosts with whiplashes they look like a come to life fiend sobbing in their shoes lost in the blues not knowing Poetry’s still green.

Poets flow with the glow of the smooth blowing snow and sometimes we puff and blow breeze. We like to pour in the words like great flocks of birds and then add some real heavy cream. We chew on nails spit spikes through rails other days we just pour Ching Shang tea.

When the poets come out and the night light closes about and the wicked wind howls and sings; When the pages get loose and do loop de loops, when the whole world looks like a scene; Are you on the guest list tonight or afraid of the light do you croon just as well as you dream? Can you still do the zoo? Or walk on the moon? Have you learned how to puff and blow breeze?

Some people head for the top they can’t even think to stop don’t take heed of the consequences but leap in the pot don’t even knock first but in dry dusty thirst spurt out their births can’t believe that they’re cursed they’ll even take one for the team. Other folks are cutting the fat. They really think that will make their shit fragrant and lean.

Poets like eating gooseberry pie with our heads in the sky and sometimes we puff up and blow breeze. We swim across moats poets don’t need boats understand how to float and we smile but not just to please. Poets see flowers that bloom and then reach for tombs with petals that do a striptease.

These days there are chimpanzees in trees and prophets on their knees and politicians huffing gasoline. Poets are a come to life scream and we pray for the day when those people fade away in the wooosh of a puff and breeze.