Lost Writes (2003)

I heard him though.

He makes his echo felt through a mean joke.

The kind that makes you choke

On laughter, spit. The master of the riddle,

Tickling your weak and weary work bones ever brittle.

Joker on his fiddle, strumming smile notes

And making Skittles of your candy mind.

Sweetness fleeting yet all too appealing he provides.

Yeah he can split your sides

Until you've cried your smile-sighs right out.

A fountain of the giddy snow rolls from your mountain mouth -

Freezes every fascimile in snowy clouds for just a second.

Wrecking all you've found to be insipid... wretched.

And then you're back on track

Smallest laughs he passes every minute on the second.

Second, that is... to none

When it comes

To making fun

Of everything that makes you glum

Until the magic hour.

Five o'clock we hear the tock, regain our power.

Plow South to our place to take that lovely shower.

Talk to all our pretty flowers.

Wait until the dreaded 'morrow.

Do it all again.

5:01 P.M.

Sidesplitter now baby sitter to no applause.

Audience gone... he struggles for a cause.

And then his sides will split.

But not from laughter...

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