Fish Window Number Six
Not moon pies and a blue RC, instead a purple LSD;
I look for streaking gerbils in the snow,
Find green sprite cans scattered two-three-four:
Below a turning Z-car one demises.
I come, escaping truth, for one more fling,
Find long hairs frozen, broken off by sweat.
I come, like Gala Dali’s mind, in blue.
A breasticle of liquid, propped by crutch.
Expecting snow (like flakes) to pound again,
A Douglas wiggles windy under insulated rain:
A Scottish botanist traveled overseas,
In search of fir, not nether fur you see.
I search for feelings in a desert-brain.
Douglas never had to search so far.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1988. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.