(a stream of consciousness poem)
123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930… Liver goes down to Texas and has tea with a maid. She says “Thanks. Let’s move on.” Meanwhile, angles dance on pigeon wings and lift spirits on high. Local teens run in streams of ever lasting byes. Sentences steam and puke up yesterdays bile and kings and queens on satin beds read newspapers from the Nile. Greeks midst pantheons, with noses turned up high. The Shah in Persia-Old buried beneath the tide. Plague creeps down city streets freeing up many beds. Blunt edged swords sever from the shoulders up, leave empty heads. Cinnamon, salt, pepper, thyme on bread sliced by time. Music plays unheard, books open unread. This year spring proceeds summer as fall’s a corpse in the gorge. “My name’s May” she says. The Oolong will do fine.