On perpetual Saturday nights, like now,
 and also like then and 2 1/2 minutes from now,
Belly, my belly
        gurgling with dark coffee and venom
urges the primal *urp* of action
     yelling, churning like a gigolo
begging to set out to farms and clouds and corn
        to drink dark earth there as it was intended.
     Not the polluting air
        nor white wrapped filth lip-sticks
    or smoke stacks leaking ash into the sky.
Just laying on dirt/pillow
     focusing eve-beams like radio signals into
        outer space.
Calm stomach,
    creature soothed by the music of crickets and coyotes,
  let me sleep there
        as perpetual Sunday afternoon lingers,
     spending time
                       spinning tops,
                grinning,
snoring in Morse
    the tuneless song of the content.
 

Scott Carrington
MS III