UNTITLED POLAROID

The moon hummed
A black and tan lick
Over the reptilian hand
Of a Mr. Robert Johnson,

A Mr. Robert Johnson
Who, after his notorized spell
of rumor at the crossroads

Could pick and pick and pick
Until it’s now whittled down
and down and down to my v-

ery own chalk-enveloped
and (so crooked) pinkie finger
that being on the left
for some infinite jest of pew-

led jabs and crack-
er-barrelled jokes
this Saudi of (yeah) Solo-
mon would shift shape for
.
And just to wag his own paper
cut finger in front of his nose,
alluding to the elephant in the
that, as Paul has already brought

(well) to light, Edison once ‘prodded
and prodded and prodded’
with a silver spoon.

A silver spoon that just last year
I finally managed to spork
at the forefront of a West
Asheville truff that blazing!–

(clothes, racquets, books
and more and more juve-
nile stuff) still develops
from the ashes the multi-

grained (blue-to-gold) hue
that this, the aforementioned
spoon, keeps giving and giving out~

like some ‘laced’
piece of cake~
to prepare the masses
for what’s to come.