He dreamt one more time of those whoosh rides always west beelined wayward waiting for Wyoming to pass where there ain't no trees scant green teas and Wanda with her sweet petite feet tucked her hair up so waveringly perfect as warm wine. The home rolleds impossible to light what with the dash air conditioned power-drive tidalwave-like aeroplane exhaust as you baby could hear the wind whistle see its dry sand imperative wafe.

J.P.H.
(...with heartfelt dedication to the Mountain People...)

!0! TELEPHONE FOUND !0!
}}}}}}}IN MY BOSOM{{{{{{{

Views: 67

Comment by J.P. Hart on March 7, 2019 at 4:35pm

Thank you!

I know.

This poem is right up there with that moment the OTR Parisian babe grabbed my tush up the stairs of the Lincoln Memorial.

!Oui! The world was new.

not far~there was a gathering,

a voice as big as the sky

~(!0! my God do I try)~

One for the money, two for the show...

Embarrassed by the light. He wanted to explain that Finnegan's Wake, on the beach of Blake Michigan, is a sprinkling of three word titles.

For whom

what

where

and

when.

same mad insane minds that innovated Fentanyl??

Who in the hades would name a bomb Little Boy.

IF I find Jimmie Doolittle in is my spit...

I don't know what I'd do.

Y
I
K
E
!S!

all of the shelf life and 'product best by' along the road code I can discern in the cellar fridge with the portrait of Sully on top are dated YESTERDAY
And yet:
~I was so amused~

Comment by Robert B. James on March 8, 2019 at 12:17am

HPpy Landings. What’s Going On? All the young dudes, some kind of Bowie thing. I don’t miss it, much. Mostly not at all.  Not now, in early March anyway. 

Emmerling. I knew...the tied down Kangaroo. 

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