The Piano Juries (In the Septic Town)

I never gave width to faith, it employs more destroyers than 7th ave.
seven months into your own trial where vacations rest for leisure
I took my own small town re-certification with a pitch from Martha’s lounge
septic shock, battery stems, colon fired prescriptions leading the journey
we hung our cousins blurry photos on the skyway, like rest stirred for disaster
fifteenth cents on a colonial’s dress where scouts advantaged their game
where shoes say yes to beats of patrol-sized rattle toy cars going to college

there are no Garfield cartoons for Lady Dickens and the drill oil cat
captured like a hotel priest, staring Schwarzenegger at the megaplex drive-in
hotel crust rotting and not memorizing the factory Pulitzer craft wrapping
shinning money on hot wooden floors like Ken dolls on poetry square
just prove to us you’re dumb enough to take a spare, toss-memory spelling

there was a case you were supposed to talk about today, but you glided
tracked when the doughnut charges in your car salt like frigid March laundering
not scrimmage in at across a five story hot tub charmer smoking cans
sleazy Bill and Mick Davis, on vacation from Miami and Portugal
laughing at funeral parlor jokes like a waltz on C-SPAN’s morning show
paying labor dues to the month of trickle down ecosocialism in quarter pines
catching the gurney where we stood on the partial steps of Paris and cried

grilled by several part-time waitresses and a maker with a white coat Frisbee
taking the coat off a whale from the firmest extremities, dialing in slim majorities
steaming dream irony make-up like fire caught on your cushions and port wine
just to evacuate the last ten miles of memory, fabricated – strained – enjoyed
we were not what our grandparents left as a nature of memory to colony breaks