.
My elbows range
don’t violate the pavement,
as the imps’ ghost drank
cannabis honey.
My ramshackle’d vessel
was tossed north toward port,
the distressed iron horse
fell at zero degrees.
Old calligraphy was found
in the nest of the eagle,
where the wine glasses were
thrust up to the totem poles’ graven parched lips.
Where the desert blossomed in a frenzy,
the green was prime and complete.
While the raptors screamed through their mouthpiece,
the secret crumbs of self fell to my feet.
I heard the cry of the sirens’ bell
as I drifted just beneath the sea.
As the stars above crashed sizzling into the ocean,
to the imp’s ghost I raised a toast…
and he shared his cannabis honey with me!
.
