6AM

Streets now lined with the Zen off broken shoulders

Outlined by ashtrays, frozen with a warning blizzard

Of ashes from the mouth’s lonesome tongue which molders

Paper from the butts of husband-esque throat tending wizards

Walks capped facets of mistreated and trampled heads

Walks kickstands, welded to the wanderers of answers

Walks contemplators of gold mines, that bitch of earth’s wounds

Walks colors blended with the exception of blues or reds

Or greens or purples or oranges or grays

Shall tomorrow come tomorrow, may we dance tonight?

Swollen cattle mostly illuminate today’s feasts and feats

While the skinny cattle symbolize their ignorance in strife

The metal of our watches come only from great metal in sheets

Not from our tile floor or its ancestors or its cousins

Not from the horn players afar of lands in other worlds

Not from miners, but minors, of misplaced bones and teeth

Not from misanthropic doers but from the philanthropic dozens

That are steady in hands, but in their shoulders and ears, they sway

Grand street salesmen on street corners bat lashes at ladies

And the same happens back to them in their honest favor

While across the street bums and hobos taunt their wisdom of hades

Only for themselves to grimly savor

The taste of a boorish nightmare of awe and wonderment

The taste of silence in its most agreeing and contradicting smell

The taste of dirt, dust of the roads that are trampled justly

The taste of bitter winds, sweet rains, and sour sentiments

Pouring from the mouths of the dead who decay

8AM

Car horns flash with sonic booms that sting

Coughs and sneezes fill the air, contaminating it

Bad men try and discover friends and good men find fiends

While the rats and hermits harmonize in sewer pits

And batteries leak blood from their innards over time

And gazelles complain about the lions who are vegetarians

And bullfrog dreamers want what today can’t have

And orchard farmers drink beer and brewers sip wine

Because they need the culture that they lack

Candy sits in bowls intended for cigarettes

And kids grab them up ferociously quick

We try to entertain posts with marionettes

But how can they pay attention when their mothers are sick

With disease of hunger and plight of their homes

With disease of imagination and sins

With disease of antidotes from the jungle beyond

With disease that sits behind their own

Windows even when the glass isn’t cracked

Ferocious beasts of tranquil moons howl

Despite their effort the stars still won’t dilute

A knight raises his mask to wipe sweat from his brow

With no surprise it is mistaken for a salute

Jack, please be cautious of your actions

Jack, please care for the beaten, the trodden, the lame

Jack, please eat your vegetables, don’t smoke, don’t drink

Jack, please study your English, your science, your fractions

Because you should, just do as you’re told, Jack

10AM

Grains and fruits of labors and of pillaging raids

Fill our silos to the brim and fill our bellies and mouths

Until we’re too stuffed to pray, or to sing lovely serenades

The birds wish for in return before the long flight south

But we can’t, we’re in love the lines in our palms

But we can’t, storms are approaching, I think, maybe

But we can’t, my feet are sore, and my back aches

But we can’t, the air isn’t clean or still or calm

At least not enough to give you your damn tune

Bohemian dreams are a nightmare for homebodies

But the vagabonds swear there is no other destiny

Just leave them to their yoga and palates

So maybe you can finally just rest in peace

The hearse drives with great music on its radio

The hearse is smooth, even on roads with many ruts

The hearse has leather seats, with cup holders and a TV

The hearse has no speed limits, and when you’re there, you get a halo

To place above your head, I’ll get you one pretty soon

Naked eyes are a pleasure, but naked bodies are a sin

Scents of coconut and olive oil are our father’s delights

You stick to your scotch, I’ll have my whiskey, him, his gin

You read Treasure Island, me 1984, him, Arabian Nights

Let’s discuss their wide array of adventures

Let’s discuss their meaning and worth

Let’s discuss the words and language in them

Let’s discuss the author’s personal struggles and ventures

In their minds and the outside world they discovered at the strike of noon

NOON

(Nothing here to see, really)

2PM

Sirens flash and wail, a feat they evolved to do

Boxes fold down to allow more trash to be tossed

Chefs these days wear cool hats, but never touch the food

I laugh at the bank’s chairs that are embossed

With symbols of manic depressed sorts

With symbols of plagues and drought and rape

With symbols of meaning in dead languages and eyes

With symbols of houses and roads and ports

That are true and visible, sure, but their targets don’t care

Invisible ghosts make sure they are seen

Almost ironically, only to fuck with your sanity

People of your past and future rest in your dreams

It’s quite romantic and warming, but both in vanity

Sorry sir, but that you can’t have easily

Sorry sir, but the dreams and their genres come randomly

Sorry sir, but nightmares are just as easily had as dreams

Sorry sir, but sometimes you’ll sleep through a pleasing eve

And you’ll miss out on a rain or a crisp, fresh air

Gods of neon and gods of steel aren’t known

Although the two elements are so prevalent

A scale of research for their position is now full blown

But the Olympians are angry, they find them irrelevant

Almost as much as their fathers, the Titans

Almost as much as God feels towards them today

Almost as much as the atheists think of Him

Almost as much as much as the faithful are frightened

If another name is used other than their own

4PM

The sun feels good, but the moon is warmer

Only if it’s blue and filled with an element of another world

My mother is a profiteer and my father is a scorner

I can’t wait to witness the wrath unfurled

By the talents they each own and have learned

By the graphs they both have drawn in advance

By the bets that are given by their followers

By the lightning that mother’s thrown and father’s turned

Directly into thunder that rumbles my body

Afternoon lunch is a bit unlawful, but tastier, I think

I buy a drink for a fine lad, while I flirt with his mother

He sips in silence, but he knows exactly what I mean

And with my eyes, his mother’s secrets, I uncover

Black eyes with rings of blue beneath them

Green beginnings and false starts of her past

White, she longs for, but red, she’s settled

Grey, she’ll never have, because the battle, she’ll never win

She’s too focused on her child’s defiance of being naughty

I create a gap to fall through in security

With a hammer I break my own mirror, hoping for bad luck

But the wood behind glass is slowly alluring me

And my shirt tails I begin to untuck

They flap in the wind as I walk through a storm

They show my lack of formality clearly

They hang below my waist, covering my identity

They unravel with the mystery, until they are ragged and worn

Out of use for their makers vain plotting
 

6PM

The priests have fathered me and nuns nurtured me

But east of Eden is a road I’ve always longed to travel

Alone, I might add, but I can’t, its sight tortures me

It’s so tempting to drive over the asphalt and gravel

To hear my tires screech as I peel out over the blacktop

To hear my engine roar like the guttural thrusts of lions

To hear my keys dangle, slapping against the dashboard

To hear my breaks squeal, as I make my last stop

Before my death overshadows my life

Gorillas are intimidating until you place them by a river

They cower at its flow and I laugh at their stupidity

Their hair sticks straight up, but their fear makes them shiver

And the look in their eyes causes a new pity

To be grown with the rain of my own tears of guilt

To be cultivated as a crop is, before the time of harvest

To be overseen by my creator and for him to laugh in scorn

To be scraped from my consciousness and be withheld as filth

And the gorilla keeps his evil plan secret with much might

As Eve approaches, the end creeps up behind her

It wields a knife that glistens in the setting sun’s glow

It plans to kill her slowly directly after it surprises her

And even the beginning alerts it on its new personal low

It shouldn’t care; it should continue its plan

It shouldn’t worry, it is nothing but nature

It shouldn’t seek; it should already see

It shouldn’t fret; it lacks its own hands

To caress a woman or to wring them in strife