bury me in silver
dot my eyes and jesus me a jar.
my soldier ants from hypodermic days
pull at my trolley of waste
stigmata brown
st. peters chicken pox
drops his paws and clots his wooden frame
an inch or two where heaven rears it\'s young
too cute to die
these pheramones of codling moth.
where no church hides
no soul can challenge time beyond restraint
of preachers and a prayer
no honey in a money box
will ever greet the cancer of a lie.
I have limped too many miles
from my hearse of penny-black
on egg shells to the grave of rubicon
it is ninetynine
the number of the beast condemned to fly
through centuries of man\'s unblemished art
from thumb to fist
from cobblestones to cake
our soup bowls glazed with cloth of indigo.
is it true our Mona Lisa is a fake?