The Shapelessness of Things to Never Come

For the most wanted silhouette in all of Nevada City
It was perfect armed-robbery weather:
A skosh sloshed with heavy hints of fettering fog,
Just enough cloud cover to put a bit of hair on the chest.
Well, as for Clyde,
Apparently he had spent too much time in Iowa Hill
At some rock-bottom point in his arrest-ridden life,
Coughing up bronze shrapnel and butterfly wings off the grid:
Another reprehensible instigator sniffing fall’s schematics
Outdoors one final time.
September’s backburner was stuffed with dead leaves,
And somebody’s insufferable shy ways
Were washing away loss
From a hangover’s peculiar brand of dying.
You see, Clyde’s contractions
Were getting to be just a few words apart,
And there was no getting past the divisor
Of his most brooding quotient
As he contemplated the chest-high fractional swirl of current events.
“Your eminence is forever imminent, fellow fellow,”
Quipped a swan jerky salesman from his balcony.
“These climes, they ain’t so airy.
Even Eisenhower had to say,
The picture’s gone from the show,
Ask any crooning prodigy,
Mister Bing Crosby
Or the bellowing Enrico Caruso,
And these times too,
They will always go
And keep going away.”
Clyde ignored the spilled verse
Like nickels from hell,
As he reconciled being caught with being chagrined,
While even the mice were getting high on the cocaine-infused dust
Saturating the…