Wherein the nights have a stretch memory,
we scan the horizon for a peek of sanity;
none to be found, we hitch a saddle to the moon.
It’s all empty, we just have air up there.
It’s like an attic, just covered with hair.
Kind of bulbous (as Beefheart would say),
fast and bulbous. Got me?
More than an homage, this is necessary for the advancement of strangekind everywhere, the liberties inherent in my birth and subsequent rearing as a beaten beat poet taking candy from strangers because they seem to have the best packaging and marketing strategies. Whoop dee doo for all my grotesque neighbors, seemingly unaware that what they inhabit is more a grid of profane propaganda pushers on every facet of what used to be proclaimed by a proud and noble people as life at large.
WHARVED 