onehundredfortysixthousandeighthundredthirtythree

it’s sugar   sure as shit

sure as guilt’s gonna find catholics

sure as sugar bear  curly hair

      nobody seems to care

the cell phone air 
fills with yes men

      platitudes

teen angst and attitude

keep the proof coming through

reading you

              feeding you

      but ultimately

                         needing you

to be the truth

       free the proof

socrates in shiny shoes

drinking the poison kiss

of cold air's bakery bliss

little ‘love you’ s between breaths

never the right time to get wet

  or be upset

we counted every last hair 
                                          on her head

onehundredfortysixthousandeighthundredthirtythree

           at least

and about a thousand more

       in the air

                  on the floor

an even dozen on my pillow

every time that's good 

        to go

or ought 

             to know

which way the timetable wind blows

for weathermen

                  for leathermen

   making sense and recompense

                         at all the reformed catholics

         on a

red brick   noise floor

    pushing adieu   to adore

here’s one   thing   more

      to good timing

and tippage

            the full house missing

drawing two

               but daydreaming of kissing

for the first time since i can remember

and at least since the first worst of november

when germs in mouths 

      caused so much doubt

and we all found out

that smiles are

                      shouts

to the little burn brown

              in this town

that circle the sweet sound

and get up just to 

       get 

down

                                                                   Corner of Oak Lane and 12th

by Chuck Connelly