A Hundred Tongues
A hundred tongues lead me to steer
the impossible far-gone conclusions of a sleuth
chewing on a clue. In turning an inner ear
to the serious nature of plates,
I break one, to see what it’s made of.
A fluffy pink arousal is a cotton-candy dancer.
A mordant everlasting is a faster buck untendered.
Zones moan a stasis, rot-got-yer-tongue.
Tumultuous minutes of a popular clock
sold in most Ma & Pa hardware operations.
The feeble and the senile in a circle.
A terrible sucking attenuation.
I’ve watched my insomnia breed a block
of theaters, wished my restless fiber
to wrestle with the gods.
So I’ve softened expectations lately,
a scale hovering on a number. Fumbling,
I’ve fastened “laughed at” to my magic strap.
A hinge of shyest flavors infiltrates
a zoo of higher learning.
Heavens erupt to the sumptuous past.
Museums are leaning to historicize.
Slinky tiger catlicks his claws
hogging all the best kill.
Teeth seem straighter when they smile.