In the Dark Hour

M. Andre Vancrown

In the dark hour

my soul vibrates on its wobbly tire,

while these scissors chop at old dead trees,

cuts a swath of two-edged tigers

no crayons will color...

all pale blue stripes and frayed albino curls,

my black toes squishing in sodden pampas

grass, claws retracted

like a clown's weepy issue,

what use, what use

honk, honk, goes my funny nose

now giggle for me pretty girl

let me don this wig like a construction

hat, big shoes, slapstick horn

ahoogah, ahoogah,

let me put on this comedic hibernaculum

magic red balls stuck between my fingers

let these eyes soak you up, until ...

all my newspapers drown in mud puddles,

their inks running to a sticky purple goo.