The More You Know

like any breaks on the jesus wagon
is not to remember bust lines of praise singers
with rucksacks of gen-x-ers who employ
100 monkeys who write “it’s not you, it’s me”
to be cut like a rival gown out of glam curtains
under kliegs that bring to light this city’s challenger
of unpopular romance culminated in the nineties
that harken to bone dust in my pill bottle
a shade of manic merlot on a morning commute
who can remember to spring forward?
in my defense it was the chinese grocers
who feign interest in major league sports
and stand crooked as an englishman’s teeth
against the loneliest parts of the day

Because I am the Tortoise

at risk the gloved little girls
roll geometrically suburban halls
untold by lesser arcana reversed
to ends stuck in this dust bowl
while an automatated seventh calvary
shoots at audiences of everyday plumbers
who keep their technology ornamental
in broken records of first baseball games
we are botanists when the sun comes up
busy reasoning under nine mile cedar shade
no one should be blamed for survival
what is lost in migration is found in photo albums
past the tourist tests in august mankind
we converse with the spirits of campfires