Logique Carnivalesque

 Maybe time spent wondering why
 was time I should have spent improvising
 with heavy metals.  By the way, 
 where are you?  I could hum some ballads.
 You see, I chewed up more than I could spit out,
 and I’m searching for ways to tease my tongue
 back to purpose.  We all speak language so fluently—
 anyone our age should—it could be French.  It could be 
 phantome, fantasia, plasma, plume.  I may or may not
 be ready.  I am slow reader who fingers sentences.
  
  
             It’s time for the childlike skins of larvae       
             to peel where you’re found alone—sketching portraits
             of breasts in Bible-colored books.  Beyond the medieval
             thigh-wound convention, oafish loitering, and packing your pants  
             with “Love Psalms that Rock the Gods,” someone nods 
             as you mumble.  You stumble over umber, which is burnt,
             like the crayon, and I interpret this as your bloodline.  
             You brag of soft-slapping mothers, and for the first time,
             patented technologies begin to perform simultaneously.