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The Persistence of My Existence

I hear the call of a seasoned witch
wailing from a murky draining ditch
her black eye peering through a tartan buttonhole stitch
calling me to visit Greenwich
and feast on a green willow switch
with a wicked son of a bitch

She’s wearing white lace,
playing an elegant acoustic bass
descending a spiral staircase
down at the edge of a spring river keeping time for a sack race
where the winner receives a Ming vase
before receiving a coup de grace
applied with a ruby hummingbird’s wing case

The six seasons pass me by. The moon eclipsed by an answer to my dream.
I walk through rainbow steam,
cross a rising tidal stream,
kiss a light beam
that tastes like whipped ostrich egg cream.
I hop on board a laser beam
and ride it to the heavenly seraphim.
We sing a bawdy dirge
with a team of sea bream

I awake. A sad preacher sits on the lap of an ocean maid discussing emotion
with the devotion
of the frigid Arctic ocean
where a lithe Laotian
walks the ice flows with a superstitious notion
that Newton’s third law of motion
is nothing more than a perceived commotion
that can be simulated with hand lotion

And you and I sit on the petal of a yellow flower
enjoying a light summer shower,
black pollen we devour
during the midnight hour
while we scour
the steps of a black bell tower
eating fish gone sour

A bird of prey from Siberia with the talons of gold stainless nails
picks at rattlesnake scales,
dives at a covey of quails
feasting on running snails
from the mouth of two dead whales
setting white sails
to escape sharing cocktails
sprinkled with powdered toenails

I listen hard but cannot see the insane teacher sitting in a red valley
around the corner from a blind alley
holding a pep rally
for a man named Sally
eating smoked fish cooked in a ship’s galley
while the dillies dally

I awake in the heat of a tangerine
sunrise sitting in an open mezzanine
where I preen
with my queen.
We share a cocoa bean
with an Argentine
waiting for a vaccine
made from the blood of a mummified peregrine
standing on a wolverine
reading a nature magazine
wishing it was still the Eocene

The wind swirls around me. I feel lost in a chair that fits my ass like a glove staring into the sharp distance pondering the continued persistence of my existence.

Happy Birthday To Me!

19 Mar 2019

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