words painting pictures
keeping eyes and ears entertained.
My King, you lay high up on my pedestal
each night I make love to your shrine.
Sacred lovely lips...
where only water falls of truth spill,
deep into hopeful rivers
of junior impressionable thrills.
Never mind these leather man jackets, high top fades, and below the rim belts
crushing up asphalt dreams
cigarillos sorta helped.
-dancing in between; time weaves -
Throw away calendars and clocks
and let us all
shimmy down dull dangerous blocks
where piles of leaves and leftover hearts lay astray
scattered, tossed about
Marco Polo they call out...
But soon he calls in to call out.
and they forget their place.
As well as the paste.
Saliva is present to save thy day.