Grab a Cane by Tim Kaney (stream of consciousness)
Grab a cane, I praythee, and walk with me
Through rusted gates, Past midnight pillars, 'round cold, gray Spires And Through misty mires.
This conjures memories, Of a close friend, And his blood red shag carpet, Padding his cold Basement.
When a thing has to end, it Goes all too quickly. And when it doesn’t Seconds parallel aeons.
Time is always bountiful when going to school but Very lacking when I feel like cogitating; And is usually stretched upon a torture rack, ever long and Screaming, when it comes to work but Is compressed to a hidden singularity when I try living
Having given it My best, My time should not spawn A jest.
Friendships have been held And trillions of words have been spelled And millions of heartless carts have been collected And thousands of miles have been protected And hundreds of minds I have seen tainted but just one car I have seen painted By the likes of me
I dare not drink and I dare not fail. Most of all, I dare not pimp myself out For a bloody chain-link And a rotten rat-tail. Nor should I kill twelve Organ-grinder monkeys For the price of one Just for the free sesame seed Bun.
A bull-moose I am: Slow to start And unstoppable Thereafter
Swaying of sinuous shapes Successfully seduce men such as me. Laughing And Mocking “Have me, you cannot,” They snicker.
I am an earthworm, pinned open, and sectioned Off by my sexual organs. My green and red fluids leaking Out-not living Only. . . Trapped
Laughing- Do you hear? Laughing- Do you? I hear- Why can’t you? Pull those spuds out- Now can you? Laughing- I hear- Can you?
Let us make haste, brave sir, in our journey. We shall not need to feed on that Guernsey.
I see the cart pusher, tucked away in his parka, Solemnly bringing in people’s convenience. Nothing there, Only gray and blue Solitude.
My life, I feel, could not Be lived to the fullest Unless I was a wolverine Clawing
Lying in the soft snow, Losing myself in the gray bow, Listening to the hard cold Delivering soft snow
Death has greeted me twelve Months every week, Not in the form of Mr. Grim himself, But as a large, black banana, Complete with gelatinous innards And a gray fuzzy-hide; Tempts me to Succumb to its Bittersweet Gooey-ness
Father Time’s rapidity Shall only change With the Situation on Hand
Having given it My best, my time should not spawn A jest.
I am not unlike Poe, Macabre in thinking And First rate in planning
I see myself as the cart pusher Tucked ever so tightly into his parka Solemnly bringing convenience for people, Living in gray and blue Solitude
I dream of saving Little China from The Three Storms and LoPan With the help of EggShan And two other guys
I know this could not happen There are no seven foot Chinamen that I Know of; No Three Storms And my name is not Kurt Russel
We have reached the bellows, Ordained with skulls and bones, Powering the infinite abyssal plane Burning Eternally in earth’s belly