If Every Soggy Optimist Be An Optometrist,
Then Every Man’s Eye Would Be A Land,
A Crown Property Staked Through By The Pound And Kennel,
With Every Bite Wizened Against The Jerking Strop,
To Sharpen And Polish The Flinching Blur,
And Settle The Charts For An Easy See,
As Age Could Define A Spine For Its Crook,
Laboring Beside The Horse’s Heir For Nativity,
As Gulliver Be Dub’d A “Livingston”…
…
An Honorary Title, I Presume…
…
For The Hooks And Chords To Lead And Bind,
UnNerveingly Through One’s Field Of Vision,
Patiently Smug In Patent Weathers For The Freeze Framed,
Jack-Rabbit Punch Buggy… Coughing Out Expletives And Spitting With
The Salt Flats,
Gideons In Their Invisible Hospitals… Cushions For Cheating
SalesMen…
…
Arrangements Of Clay Jars On The Rush For Gold Fillings,
Royally Filled With CareFull Orchestrations…
…
…
Dust… Tears… Saliva…
…
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All Is Secured By Tipping The Scales WithIn A Happy Dream Of Rulers,
As Its Optimists Turn Life’s Fogs InSide Out,
A Blind Lunacy They Embrace With The Leash’s Loop,
And Raise The Lens To A Miracle Of Sextants…
…
In Every Black Hole… A Circus… A Dinner With Old Friends…
…
Then…
…
The Circus Is The Hole… And Its Diners With Mouths That Lack
Utensil…
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But, That…
…
That Was AllWays Just A ColorFull Walk In Its Balloon-Filled Park,
Running With The Frisbees And Ducking.
More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.
