as the deer dips its nose in the lavender
the seer sniffs this rose of the rapper
hanging by the rope of his random words
hanging white coats on those antlers
the psychiatrist among this effulgence
the fire he spits, his tongue’s indulgence
in rhyme legit as the sun and its cousin,
that minor kid as the bun in its oven
this lunar photosynthetic
rumour flowing through the Internet
the moon glowing true and ridiculous
the truth known to too few as Titian is
under the white glow of his sadness
succumbing to psychoanalysis
this Dr. Fung who sits reading Yeats
his dick long as the list of people to thank
scribbled upon the bricks in green paint
simple songs but idiots we ain’t
your Rorschach inkblot’s a ghost,
a tricorn hat and ingots of gold
normalized as the role of unique poets
marginalized as the flow of neutrinos
more spooked by the soul than the superego
four blue eyes aglow in pure evil
these Easy Street cats approaching you peaceful
only to pull out the piece and shoot three people,
six brown eyes awake as Kool Keith’s flow
recovering from AIDS or a flu seasonal
or wounded as Conway the Machine was
you couldn’t go wrong praising Jesus
it isn’t a question of faith, blood,
it’s more like a reckoning,
it’s more like collecting the pay stubs.
This addict
kicked out of his debate club . . .
the definition of idiosyncratic; a beautiful, raw odyssey through depersonalization and free association against the canon and toward a new one Rhys Langston