The unbearable likeness of being Sarah,
is searching through painting Higdon.
Something for which is beyond the Sahara,
walking like a strumpet to her new kingdom.
She couldn’t kill a mockingbird,
or bury Angela’s long lost ashes.
Trying to find just the right word,
separate from eyes of the masses.
Preparing for a move from this reality,
for the famished ahead roadway.
The almanac of the dead drive spitefully,
while the eyes of god were watching away.
Please give her one more drink,
wait make it at least three.
She likes being tickeled then to think,
where the wild things will be.
This crazy genius is outspoken,
animals know when all else ceases.
When a mirror falls and it is broken,
she loves to look at the shattered pieces.
I was a sailor of the seventh sea,
now my waves are etherwatt made.
The ship I sail is what you see,
my boots are now yours and they’re made of suede.
dead beat poet 