when I see artwork welded to a tree

when I see others stop and stare

when I find myself in their place

when I bend left and turn and come

back again





when I find the moment clicked

on by


when I find out of the curiosity

I wonder what crazes and cracks

Ozark/Springfield enamel and dry, dry


when I shed crystal well being and things essential

when I blow the dust off the crust

when I have had enough of heaven and when it feels done, done


when you have had enough of dull over dunn art-impressed sky

when you feel the push and the market is as some art jihad

made of blood red dye


when when

cracks and crazes the best; we tryed


the land was Springfield

before we knew who we were


before we were a people of unity

before we ran all the blacks out of Springfield


we won’t call it an early 20th century riot

and lynching


we’re far too cool and far too Springfield

and Ozark cool


we process what is fresh and stark

we amass in our memory (grey matter

no longer on the go)


we unhinge our blindfolds

and look skyward since Gods and Goddesses


would primarily and imperatively

and primatively appear there


among the once fallen, flagellant debris

once among the shell shocked chocked

Springfield streets (mean streets) of the

primary Rhymer’s Club–they performed.


there was no trace of life, the cheap hostility

went down those seasons ago; the Image

was paramount and the pure mind



the Dorian Mood and the Decalogue of Strasbourg,

the Lionel cranked up train, the express of the bronze

but butt worn stool in the neighborhood pub;



there is no step in the decade

there is no neglect in the young,

there is only reveries for the show

and the Springfield spectacle.


he marred not his blade

he married Noble multiform bowls

he stories law and order

and unseen, dusts the civil norm.


scalp spatula and torch blown blaze,

even dirt and uncles and carbuncles

and scratch in the our public

formed read forum lens.


released of cloudy touch-

haze of delinquenct and eloquent rapier

of no more alas Alan Alda

MASH’s page.


Arc and Saw and fay and elf,

Hall to hale the downtown KC mark;

hazel eye in tort of anger,

seer of burst of auger


and family head released as saint,

no tenor–no ringer of image,

no dot and doth, no more does;

no more discipline, no more explaining.