four crops are ripe right now,
due to fester in the fallowed dew.
when the rigid homunculi
begin to stomp their creepy cadence
will you lock-step under a sign,
with a television for a grainy head
and a vacuum for an absent heart?
(thoughts projected and sniffles whooshed
under a random banner)
when we merge
the cross and the ankh and the crescent and the star
we are only delivered a bigger inkblot:
inscrutability credibly rules,
gives birth to the certain knucklehead.