troubled sleep in times of all antlers

Irrevocable stints spun hustled, less than a car horn. I remember when the stars arrived, all humble and fully formed. A million years of dim junk. The slunk of rain. An iron gate’s twinging peal pleads with the scent of umbrellas unfurling. And remember me telling you about the glut of curvy wayfarers in my past? Going on about inveterate gum-chewing days and of-all-the-gin-joints nights? Wrestling wrinkled silk neckties away from pencil-necked jokers. A real damn gimme if you ask this here lawn-worm salesman. Your tax dollars hardly at work. Taps played for the senator’s wife, who would’ve left him for a Parcheesi-playing trumpeter if the druthers ever came to being hers. But we’ll let the moonlight decide whose dalliances to run ragged up the flagpole. Campy moves with an embattled front. Besides, I don’t even have a day job to quit. Returns get sent unpacking while the hobnobbing goobers all sniff the prize. This side of town, used to be every girl had a copy of Ashbery’s poems on her shelf. Now they’ve all got Whoopee cushions and pleated pants. Choppy rain whisks the concrete slick. Purred remorse sings the buses electric. A wince. A shrug. A grubby hallelujah for the washed away makeup of yesterday’s frown cues. Cures for boredom abound while the good-hair days never last. Sighs are a lousy buck’s cheap cry. Do not walk outside of the crosswalk. Do not roll haphazardly like an aimless tumbleweed…