Knuckledrag and bad boy’s game
lying and keeping
a little to the side,
no more talk for the old ladies on the block.
Only raincoat blues and the Blue Owl, a barrel house
bar for jazzboppers
and string bean painters shucking leftovers at the bottom of the sea.
Out of control with block letters
and a bag of shortweed,
a bag of tricks to match bones
on the street game concrete board.
I’m all grown up, baby, right at the nick of time it seems.
They are spreading my fortune
over all the table,
a rocking house of cards the old fingers can build.
Angel wings and old feather knowledge,
enough to tell me what I already know.
As if a hood needed to be told
that it covers the head.
They are telling my story.
Who has the spraycans, the lightning ball watch and steam pressed suits?
Not the fishman,
not the pig man.
I got love an old tongue can’t get enough of.
Yeah, my friend,
you found me out.
