There's ice cream in the garage

and unknown amounts of time,

big is very large,

and I hear my head-on chime

I lay myself bare

to wandering clouds of July

and the Sweet Nothin's of everything

and Brenda Lee,

noticing

how relaxed the secrets of now and here

bounce about this jingle jangle morning

of C. G. Jung's synchronicity

There's ice cream in the garage

and unknown amounts of time,

big is very large,

and I hear my head-on chime

I live upstairs till noon

to feel the world for sure tilt off,

my self an insect

'cross the notebook page;

time two wings afloat

on thermals of resting wills:

”Pull over ye living;

make room for sweet nothin's!”

There's ice cream in the garage

and unknown amounts of time,

big is very large,

and I hear my head-on chime

Sexual intercourse is a symbolic act

and a ritual of raw will

gone meaty all over the place

 Peeing in the wrong place,

like a local politician in a ferry flower pot,

is something else,

but making love, in it's most basic form,

is notifying next of kin, head on,

straight up,

on rude and rowdy wavelengths;

a collection of ghostbuster sundowns

blaring in your ears,

the universe

making sure it retains the means

to observe itself

There's ice cream in the garage

and unknown amounts of time,

big is very large,

and I hear my head-on chime

T's not easy not being religious

and sectarian,

but with practice, it's possible

The Cosmos is not only our home;

it's our bones and chapters,

our diaries and warlords,

and it's picking up where it left off,

always and always again

I'm sailing this ship late into the day,

sticking to my sheets and cover

till noon's passed the upper hand

There's ice cream in the garage

and unknown amounts of time,

big is very large,

and I hear my head-on chime