I Am Thrilled by a Wall

The fourth uphill is a posit of conundrums.

A bike is a spoke in a flounder of wonder.

Lingo’s gnomon-adventure adores / betrays: beyond the possible countryside.

Not exactly a fine line but not utterly a dull thud either.

Setting out from Monmartre, Emil searched reference points back, across time.

In a way, no one had ever dreamed of it.

But found only an iron as a people of himself smiling in cold beer & cheese.

On horseback & on foot, Chagall is a gat, a sentence a glockenspiel.

Is it Goethe in print? Or Felix the Cat pitching woo in the Metro?

So sad was Aunt Tilde in her gown of horrible chintz she listened at keyholes.

Time's leggings are Doges wired for commerce.

Vague terrible pronouns of sagacity waddle across Betty Crocker-clichés
every morning of Psyche's life as one) an insect or two) a heart.

She can’t disperse this dastardly crowd. Or Emil in Sears.

I give you the late, great Kitty Carlisle!

If Lodz is a pot-latch then Lodz is a moon last among many.

The poem goes--small iguanas flit thru space episodically.

The next poem will change everything you believe.

“The next poem will change everything you believe” has changed nothing.

Time is a blossoming American Beauty.

I am thrilled by a wall. What is your timetable on?