Criss Cross

Criss-crossed tattle tale
Fumbling with his shoelaces
Criss-crossed thumb sucker
Waddling to the men's room
Crossing Guard of eighty-odd
Bent and sharply pointing
Sucker-punched, stepped-upon, crushed beneath
Fancy-pantsy wailers on knew goings off
kilter from the norm askew
from parallelograms of correct association to two grounds
grounds states of non-sobriety
in stationary tipsy topple and trip
pen-hand wobbling, scalpel running blind
Gracious knows the Light of God is ether in acidic form.

Teehee Teehee

A basket of fries with crumpled wax paper below
spilled onto my lap as I gamed away
through my fingers to a console to me through a screen
a conversation never fully had for alteration too long traveled.
Bourbon-infused philosophy of growth and time and distance
versus exploration and reach and understanding.

Bourbon Slumber is Quieter than the Urban Rumble

Sleep on, Mr. Bourbon Man. Sleep onto the spaceship floating here and there.
Wander in the dreams of pestering folklore, Sleep on, My Bourbon Man.
Awoken eyes glide down the Creek.
So go my Bourbon Bedtimes