You could have a big dipper   

better have faith that I'll fuckin' call the manager by D.S. Randol






I'm getting real sick

of lugging God on my shoulders

& all of Her brothers

getting stoned

/ wasted time by

the bay /

in reverence to airhead clouds that

yup,

they all made (

& I think that's their plan for men

) when I bring Her / the Boys /

to the beach looking for a

bumm

-er Evolution

I bequeath Her: donuts, a picnic. It's all I ask.

How can you say

you want more

or less than seven days' dreams


& sunbeams! & Jesus sings!

& there's sand in the Krispy Kreme I bought but


Kum

Ba

Ya !


the ocean sun never seems to run

She just crams more iridescence

into an equatorial canvas

then, my eyes sting like jade when I peer down in a water pocket to

see

fish. fish. !

Fish seem to

fly in the stained glass that, for me, depicts

Job holding a gun &


my receipt

that says "No Refunds."

behind me,

the bonfire looming.



 

D.S. Randol is driven by birds and trees, good music, and anything else with passion innate. He writes to measure a life and sleep a little better at night. Some interests include birdwatching, playing fighting games with varying success, and picking up trash. Feel free to follow him on Twitter @DSRandoL.


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