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Mountain seer seeker thinker lover

searching for funerary whites and blacks
thinking of comfort and times that revel
in comfort and times, in minds that are lax:
Steady stutters, mobbing through knots of chords,
strings of fury and expansions of sense
over self. Get it? I planned that the words
on the wall would splatter like a past tense:
Nerves of satin, there's a fog that's next door
and a pageant within the squalls and swells;
It's really quite simple – we are here for
your love, your faith, your culture, and your smells:
Yes, boss. Good day to you, too. (You bastard.)
I'm waiting for them to bring the mustard.
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