MeetingTheBar: working the chainGang (w/ 12 Romans)

Each night, out of discipline, i run
a comb through membranes, seeking truth
& felonious cogitations flea-ing the chain-
Gang

thirty-one...thirty-two...

don't pull too hard when teeth get caught,
can't tell the store by the lies you bought
'cept in actions wrought, that's why mine's
shaved in a mohawk, all my thoughts point

up---eyes to the floor, too many trap doors
in the mind's mine to bear in mind & corners
where the sun don't shine, even in reflection
on the moon, man left footprints on once
& never went back, been there done that

thought-less, but we---we're always re-turning
the same plots, expecting seed to root in spite
our tilling, retelling the same stories as if
the ending might be different, apples always gListen,
so says the snake hissing for kisses

one hundred one....one hundred three...

the forecast no longer partly cloudy, leaves
the sky free & blue, as my jeans, holey things,
i wear like champagne to visit Mona Lisa,
she works a street corner, making a guitar moan
& goes by Frank---plays for tips, to supplement
his guv'mnt check, gave me one once--sang

there's a parable in the wind,
keep searching, man
keep searching, so

Each night, out of discipline, i run
a comb, 's got a some broken teeth---i might miss
a few felons, but 'ats alright by me

Over @dVerse Poets, Anna has us writing postmodern poetry, mixing high/low culture, surrealism and a couple other things & well, i gave it a shot...she can explain it all the more when she opens the door at 3 pm EST.