4/4 still a popular form
Quadruped like a horse,
Galloping thru Missouri’s geological warps
Tall grasses and short, stamped flat by the force
traversing new grooves
Two hooves find purchase and formalize new curvatures
It’s funny the drummer’s feet are here from the eyes hidden
Just two hands up top like a square with two sides missin
At the bar request a water sparkling
Pause to verify phone wallet car keys
imposed, the grid on the manifold, a face with two hands below, as quiet as standing oak
the frame, perchance it broke, would it make a sound,
beige and the brown, bubblegum & daisy compound,
blue berries, cherries, and oranges arrayed on the count
and the gray that surrounds

They say a giant gourd of iron ore
Which from side to side was 90 miles or more,
One day did strike this flying orb,
Well on the other side it was night of course,
And hit the earth with such frightening force
As to exterminate all the dinosaurs

But isn’t it great?
I came centuries late!
Instead of their fate
I revel with mates in venues ornate
Drinking glenlivet straight,
My breath, on escape, resembles a wraith
(Lia twisted a j)

And it’s a hell of a high!
I’m wealthy and dry
Overwhelmingly blithe
Enjoying periodic swellings of pride,
What’s the good of telling the time,
The story I tell in my mind,
Embellish with relics and delicate lies,
Dodge truth like a big rock that fell from the sky

Burn one for the one whose turn’s come,
Burst come like nerves on the first gun
Absurd, the world stunned by the purse
The burst lung from the germs and blurred sun

The church, asserts drum against cursing tongues,
whence the word sprung?
The mirth is sucked, like mike, from love
The first cup was spilt, the second was slurped up,
The third remains undisturbed, her door shut
The fourth was bird dung

Burn one for the one in search of,
A life that occurs with the sun
The stern truss of the carriage,
The sure brush, the bearing,
Fern dust in the prairies, I tell you spread beauty
A word few use or skew and use loosely,
For now it’s the blue smoothie,
Tomorrow it’s green from the broccoli trees

Lots to carry, various alloys and barrels and animal hides
Sticks like wicks burn down the candle of time,
Taps levered dispatch beverages,
Guitar cases filling with treasure, the drummer in good measure
We who chart daily a monochrome grid,
In grayscale chainmail, spout cobblestone quips
The old same old same can’t complain and still does it
On the weekend fill rooms to gorge on spilled colors
From bells and skilled brushes

Two by fours,
The slamming doors, the glaring windows’ endless floors,
Ground to sky,
Pounce the ear, pounce the eye
By the ounce I sell, by the pound I buy
All around I fly,
Peddle quality wares in the towns I find
Pocket squares tied in a boundless line
amaze