Rich Dick

Poor Richard,
The mansioned alveoli of desiccated crocodile
are violins over heavy unreachable waters.

Poor Richard,
Columns of sand-paper Venuses hold up a chalky
roof of crags, and below it, lost explorers sleep in chairs
of stacked up sand-bags, hot air piped through pretty pettings.

Poor Richard,
There are mice in the calendar, and babies hold court
wearing wooden shoes turned loppy instead of powdered wigs,
and the Trojan horse is just a house for puppets in the rain.

[place called 'giglets']

Poor Richard,
my brain is a pile of nickel macaroni through which can be seen
the habitus of the Andean bees which make little beards upon
the llamas, and make honey in the pan-pipes of wistful steamers.

Poor Richard,
there are gentler tadpoles betting in the moon, and more grandly
they gush, with their withered faux dolphin heads swarming with rectangles
and their philomagnetic milk armor tucked inside albino moccasins.

Poor Richard,
We have arrived at 'giglets'...