The Whistling Buoy

I do not know much
About the gods
Or, of what I do,
Choose now to seal over,
Choose now to seal over
As this snail makes
A switch-backed path
Of mostly green eggs,
Fried pigs and (yeah)
Purple slime over the one thres-
hold that, being glass, once multiplied
But now, with a tenebrous gaufaw,
Diminishes to the size of a grain.

Meanwhile, in Albuquerque a future clown (wannabe slinkie° ∆ with the tick-red to green-brown tortoise to (last but not least) giraffe-ochre laden yellow colors, who you might pass on Route 66 or some other kind of road ∆ ) slips on a banana peel,
On a banana peel as a quartz arrow smokes and sparks, sparks and smokes; as if to let some Jamaican gnat out from underneath the ice.
Notwithstanding how this jerk’s finally taking a long needed bath of electromagnetic salts plus (yeah) some holy water to sanitize such a crying lot of goats and goaltenders where (once-upon-a-time) ice-cream saved the day.


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