Accidentally Joined the Counting Crows

I,
summoned to the coterie,
an itinerant Ace;
     virtuoso-so.

So unfamiliar 
are voyages to freedom
      from guitar,
          jousting in arena brights
          cauterized in nylon mail.

Hoist pianos, and
clean underneath nails, a pinky
      to lackluster polish. 

Every night, tour
       and puke 
       the prolix phrase.
           Formidable hand jobs
           behind the fortuitous
                 dinner plate. 

We,
for fans aroused by inerrant prose,
are caught between the exclusive message
          and slightly perfect tuning.

Distended eyes
on oceans of deep air.
High, dolorous reality,
sometimes,
down under the
hallway closet’s
detritus.

There speaks feign passion
in the phonemes.
Momentousness
in a perplexed baby,
irresolute for days
at a time.  Be what mine
in yours, sottish yet
emblazoned with crayola.

Fostering tiny telephone voices,
inert and distant like space
between TV stations.
We, like hot air balloons, talk down
to water.

We sport bad hair days
and half hour moonlights.
And you,
sentimental to sunshine
that shadows your hair hue
under wheat light.

Unavailable to conclusions,
Unfamiliar to elders.

Unavailable to conclusions,
Unfamiliar to elders.

Hot Air Balloon Sketch

Over pulsing carpets of people,
our giant lung
plastering majestic ideology
all over the young scene.

From up here,
leaves fall to form macro beasts,
    seasons head east,
       and the sun consumes a cornea.

I couldn’t find the camera
in her purse
or her glasses.
just manila chap-stick
wrapped around napkins,
my only object-cathexis
not swallowed by the hot organ.

We,
giant objectives,
slowly circling a cul de sac. 
She,
my ragamuffin,
once beautiful bag lady.
The one in Hawaii
renouncing cats in sermons,
on the soil of an orchid farm,
to an alligator-skin father.
her penny shoes
tied together
like symbols of graphic unity.

And by visions from a north,
we are connected through phone lines,
cup and twine,
to an old dark at the end of a south.