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