​rubber-soles reroute the lightning (lightning-bolt psychology) 

Turn on the garbage disposal,
to dispose of me properly.

I’m getting the sweethell out of this mockery,

The honkytonk and honky talkey,

we’re climbing the walls/we’re doing the dishes

We’re making some order.

We’re making some order.

“Can I take your order?”

No thank you, lady.

Here are my hands, with the blood of bloody children.

“Let’s kill them.” (we killed them)

We cooked them with celery.

The one was called Ellery, and

 she was sure somethin.’

And now we must buy and book a vacation


Who needs repercussions? Understatements?

Mass conjunctions (not me.)?

I will go wherever I can.

Anywhere but here.

I could even hold your hand

and take you with me take you with me

Take me with you,

then stick me in the sun to melt

The birds will pick my brains,

like berries in the April rain.

I have no choice but to do this to do this.

The walking backwards sideways ticking

of ‘time’ because it measures me.

It measures me.

It measures me.

And Jesus Christ! I wish it were three

Where have you been?

Where have you been?

Apparantly, I am failing time

Like a useless high-school American History.

You don’t fucking know. You don’t fucking know.

Everything I’ve said was lies.

But rubber-soled shoes DO reroute the lightning.

It’s hard sometimes to get through safely

Please allow me to frollick peacefully into

the fringes,

to cease. -clw  9-20-03 

copyright: C. Ward 2017


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