Clay cranks up the music
reveling in “A Tincture in Time”
“This place no Tin Pan Alley” says he
to the whirling dervishes
motor mode means eyes move awake
no dreaming endlessly but acute music
like the traffic noises whir the head stirs
and Master cogitates
less than suddenly
a distinctive arousal
the neurons are withholding
a seesaw jigsaw for example
adamant about the herb identification
Cory slices a nerve
“There!”
circumventing stilted movement
“Is DJ in the house?”
he formally rounds a corner
his constituency a clever bunch
slip on shades and start to jellyroll
oh Master mustn’t matter much anymore
around and around it goes heave-ho
once it swivels it’s in a nice rut
never one angle more justifiable than another
“Whoops!” something shot like a vein
we are the most important movers
so directly cranial
Clay is feeling all tingly
though nobody swims to the rescue
come breakfast-time
the clean-up crew will be around
drowning makes for such an agreeable night
he remembers oculomotor
and Xanadu
and biscuits with lots of butter
on Thanksgiving
