straw sticks
in sticky shoots
like squashed up birdsnests
to the souls of these boots
snow crackles round
the lakes frozen blue
the parts fit together
with invisible glue
we're tired of the battle
the grocery aisle's choose
the model's puckered lips
the crazy man's ques
the smokies poke their ledges
toward the plaster of the moon
crosswinds lining up the grasses
like a weaver's rythmic loom
we've got our tanks and tonkas
we've got our dirty dues
our wireless negotiations
our dusty, unused pews
the birds are kind and feathered
beaks pecking at my shoes
with their tiny tear dropped bodies
they shift my wordly views
we don't have to live in twos
mixed up story, mother goose
the workings of the inner world's
not blinking on the news
