saturday morning

when the interlocking parts
of eyes emerge from your journals
like smoke signals
who could it mean

i am a cloud
i'm wearing short shorts
and tourist's shirt a parody
some sort of nightmare

it's saturday morning now
it was yesterday too
but today seems more glowy
than tomorrow's

seems more straight-faced
and a bike i could hock
like a child's tears
on front lawn

i never liked rosary beads
i never did makes me think
of death smell of chlorine
of phlegmy drunk of purgatory