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.