Time is a crime
Where every clock
Will climb
To some top rock

And ring
In a cadence
Pretend to sing
Reality so dense

Only a human
Can hear
But the greater plan
Will tear

The watch
Off the wrist
Of Sasquatch
And insist

That time
Is an artifact
Fosterer of crime
A human fact

Which holds veracity
Among those
Accepting tragedy
When eternal doors close

Information is rife
And timeless 
Known cause of life
Found in each caress

The saddest part of verse
Reliance on language
Forces poets terse
A need to temporarily engage

With timing
A phony beat
Against living
Ultimate timeless retreat

But so much information
A bard must squash
Via muted intonation
As compacted temporal trash

Random information
Sweetens linguistically
Verbal versification
Of polyglot humanity

A pachyderm

Glances around

Willing to squirm

Sans sound

No ivory

Nor tubular snout

But auditory

To all about

With eyes

In a strange place

It tries

To replace

Sound

With hue

And resound

Forgetful too

Should a wolf

Or an eagle 

Need nasal relief

Respitorially inequal

For one

There’s a beak

Just for fun

The other might speak

Nasally

But sniffing

Usually

Unlike high piping

During a sweep

There’s the smell

Over a heap

Both know so well

So the nose 

And the eye

Neither oppose

Light, odor from the sky

You were the cure
But abandoned 
Me pure
So I secured
A lure
Out fished
The manure
Which piled
On your floor

My mind though
Strolled
About the goo
Which piled
To all who
Were beguiled
Through and through
And got infected
I still love you

The kashanka
Is a noisy place
Will make ya
Hide your face

Yet it’s started 
Well over there
The departed
Were well aware

Fostered a noise
No more a taste
Which with you cloys
Not in haste

So carnivores
Mix smell and sound
Hiding savage sores
Let kishkes resound

Silence was welcome
In a performance
To enlighten some
Put into a trance

But it was a trap
Unable to pray
Clippedy clap
Afraid to say

Let me outta here
It slid deeper
At maximum fear
Scarier,  creeper

But it did stop
Neck too deep
With a final plop
What the bleep?

Chicken leg in toilet
And flush valve
Wasn't set
To evolve

It was too high
But so serene
Who’d try
In floors between

To judge the kitchen
As a place
Where they’d be stitchin
It's a race

Not to solve
But let’s
Absolve
With no regrets





]

Hymns mock 
Silence with sound
Pursuing a clock
Into the ground

Time enlivened
For no reason
But contrived
To carry on

A grand echoed sound
For death debuts
Above the ground
Beyond eternal views

Yet music
Accepts any position
Maybe aesthetic
Or perdition

Sardines means schemes
Swimming in congregations
Are they extremes
Of annihilations

Does any one sardine
Reach the limit of life
With no room between
Everyone and his wife

Yes they reproduce
But do they as one reach
Beyond the loose
Sands of a natal beach

Maybe fed
Like they feed
On something dead
To human need

It's a disgrace
To regard subway commuters
As a way to replace
These tinned fishy suitors

Travelers refers and defers
To a species
Which prefers
The aroma of feces