Hey Sunday

Indulge,

a sip of stained teeth,

            your adventurous fingers

                        surreptitiously traverse fleshy landscape only to

absent-mindedly retrace their steps.

Effervescent lattes, melodic hair, burnt-crisp bacon, diaphragm breaths, placid hum-dee-dum.

            Traffic auditioned but annoyed the judge.

Drugged,

                        memory uses finger-paint and turbid watercolor.

                                                Kaliedoscope on clouds.

Toes and feet swim in undulating afghan for hours measured in toe and feet time. And light snuggles on the sheets nagging for intervention. Immanency, calm down, the milkman is Apollo so wait for that chatter and cereal.

Happy mishmash of careless

            lip,

                 nose bumper-cars ,

                        fugitive hair,

                                    and divinity.

Phonons oust diaphanous dreams to the sandmans pouch. Where does he live? And is it Mr. or Dr. ? (I mean, not to be weird but he is highly specialized so...)

There is the chatter and cereal. Told you they'd come. See Apollos bike with wheels of felicity?

                                    Tick. Millennia. Tock. Sloth. Sunday.

 

- Mike MacNeil