On My Neck

At one point the words folded into boxes of sand.
The grains changed from hues of neon OPEN-red
to flashing GO-green on cue. The composer had
gloved hands, white like Mickey Mouse, with dog-ears.
His opus was our opus. The sands were glass words in
cubes, like an Apple market burnt from red into stories.

The oxen-laid Egg for the hens to cook while the tales
aged colors and grew colder, then, doggedly, a Mouse
perked and wagged his hands as to conduct the opus
Dune Onto Soul. The Soul! A sand and a rock a construct
of the same dust! The toiling Oxen and the Egg we are; eat!

Approx. 3:33 AM Sunday, March 29th, with low visibility,
I gathered Pincer Bugs from the carpet and itched
a moth into the light; snubbed it like a butt into ash.

It flickered out, the moth did.
And another month went by.

The colors, the Mouse, the Dune, the Soul, here is the
Truth: a hidden-mongst Men is't? Was. Now's it: a boy
dressed in Purple gathered his flock and prepared for Mass.
The field was growing bright from a long evening of basking
in celestial rays and heavenly bodies, whose Opus was
conducted with ease by the Moon, a fickle horned thing,
whose fertile ways leaned the tides toward themselves, an
inward lapping of waves, lapping upon the shore, heaping
wet and sea -- the Grand Mover of the Earth grabbed shears.

The pure sheep ba'aed, one black sheep Baaled, some
Balaamed and a few bashed their puffy skulls into mori,
as in memento, remember into stones and dust,
while a large wolf came carrying a bucket full of red clay,
filled to the brim, as a house stacked in warmth.

Brick-red or bloody and hay-ridden, there was a horse
beneath the wolf. It neighed for a rider.

The wild dog bore gifts of entrapment. The shepherd boy
wouldn't stand for it. His purple Earth moved by wind,
and as he recalls, there were Tulips:

The Tulips around my neck were as abundant as the stars ,
who in God's Glory shone bright and comfortable. The grass
touched smooth like a wet rock, and my rod was elongated,
as in my Fathers dream, so I thought to the Wolf:
Should I call upon the heap of Dune and Pincer?

And the itching wouldn't stop. And the itching continued.
ITCHING. GO-green, the light near the Sign E N C, near
Yogurt, near former place of Work (washing dishes), near
cigarette's. OPEN-red, the sign near the yellow street, lit
by sore drunks and thirsty red-eyes; a few guitars line the
sound-walls as well. Near the resting place was a dream,
quiet and far from Kidneys and Livers.

And out of the hallway was born an idea: Time is not my
concern. Time requires Faith, and I reserve what little I
have for less convincing things.