SNOWPLOWS

plead the fifth;

make 'em work for it.

give 'em nothing.

make 'em sweat.

do it to them

before them do it to you.

this is good advice.

you should take it,

or not.

one of us is insane.

think its her,

but it could be me.

time will tell.

time will sort this out,

or not.

who is that masked man?

will he be staying for supper?

probably not.

when he was young,

he molested chickens

on his way to school.

I queried why?

he hit me with a molested

chicken.

I queried why a chicken?

he hit me with his fist.

no more questions.

he dropped out of school.

truth be told: 

he was kicked out for

molesting chickens

on his way to school. 

now he's a serial killer.

no, he's not.

he's a psychiatrist, and

still molests chickens.

we all need a hobby, he said.

he should know, after all,

he's a psychiatrist.

I'm a serial killer of

molested chickens.

a hobby, of course.

excuse me now. need to fart, and
not allowed to fart in this room.
have another room set aside for farting.
must go there now, and quickly,
as not to get on anyone's bad side
in this room of dreaded gloom. 

there are rules, then there are
extenuating factors having
nothing to do with rules;

as some old blues singer
sings us over the moon
in early month of June;

in a room full of colored 
balloons where once held
a room full of buffoons

filed to rim with booze
singing off colored tunes
bordering on porn.

ferocious walking emotional

tightrope.

terminal case of thinking

overly much.

thoughts forming on edge of

lost and found.

what constitutes a win is a win;

and most certainly will

remain so, at least until

skinny man takes out 

the garbage; taking

along win with it.

initiate the impossible 

for a new awaking wake up.

genius went to crap and

has not been seen since;

but smell persists ripe and

long.

but if wishes were farts,

we'd all be plum full,

leaking from all points 

of interest. 

excretion point towards

human port of entry.

more psychobabble when

those gibberish speaking

off the wall conformists

revise their gibberish,

favoring psychobabble.

speaking ways and means;

sort of like being reborn,

but not quite so much so

to cause any great concern

to either those living 

or dead.

expecting a visit from

dementia at any time

and place, probably

right around bedtime.