Dear Sir, I am afraid that the moon will not show tonight for it has gotten loss in a tea cup full of blue darkness trying to fill the heart of a wandering word that gently swallow the night.
The sun is full of violent that can be eaten with a spoon made of cloud water and regret for the plight of man.
The old black lady who insists that she is the queen of womanhood is hidden in the fog of the steam vent that keeps her warm in the long night of winter where the stavation of a fat corner full of beginnings is sobbing for the lost sidewalk hiden in the crowed. where the passerby throw coins into the toaster chasing the bread of life
An old white man with his gun of memories of war is playing cowboys and Indians with ants that crawl over his body caught in the warm dark place of sleep.
And Sir it is with regret that I must inform you that the rain is being swallow by flowers planted in the path of the rush hour.
My dear Sir, if the stars are falling do not hold it against the darkness smelling of stale Colt 45 and warm piss.
It is with the utmost regret that I must inform you that the pills that keep you thin are as fat as crime in St. Louis and the doctors of that city are fishing for money in the pocket of the poor where they keep the notion of their Gods.
The fat belly Buddha is as heavy as sin committed in the autumn of an expect eye that will not see the memories of Confucius held in the dark thoughts that people the fare way of a Chinese bicycle
My dear Sir, there is nothing to be done with all the dead butterflies found in the situation of a penetrating suffering full of the pride of pain.
And Sir, the homeless woman with Black-eyed Susan growing from her tongue is fishing for a nun in a river of sperms where the single tail sperm turtle-like nibble at the egg of a would be son.
Sir, I beg of you duration and the humble gratitude that is struggling attentively against the burdensome familiarity of being human tinted with the glory of the common man who wash his hands in the contradictory bank of emotions that was thrown away into the dumpster where squirrels are having a party.
Sir, I must inform you that the essential exaggerations of the common man who is trying to find a way to kill the revolution thoughts of the poet because they wish to keep their limitations company when the TV is baby sitting their human destiny.
I must also inform you Sir, that all the afore mentioned is just the dependencies of the last obligation that must be kept secret in the depth of an earthworm’s insistence that it have a soul full of warm dirt.
My dear, dear Sir, the expressed penetrating expression on the face of a bee is reserved only for the flowers with their reproduction needs exaggerated by the course of the confused sun that confront earth with anger.
While the industechnicsim of a hard-on dream goes about confronting the evident seen in the revolution of the pre-existing order opposed by public existence.
And lastly Sir, the lost red is hiding out in the purple plum masquerading as an orange squeezed into yellow spoils.
