it strokes the fear of isoceles

i. the freak of the early dogma

the holy ghost of Mrs. Blau
scuffles over the damp macadam
in thread-worn puffy slippers,
bargain bins the blue light specials-
forced to shuffle she starts with wailing
and crumbles into soul-eating markets:

a house coat in the pinking wild
where, indiscreetly, rainbows ring
and the sneaky drips of pan
freak the rim of speedy cyclicals
in the pre-dawn greasy glee-

here comes the pun:

she has been banned from triangulation
by the brocade hats of pointed decay,
but learns to worship the disappointment,
for she has birthed an anesthesia.

ii. jesus is missing one point

he with the fatherless fentanyl eyes
is a memory incontinence away
that the mother cannot triangulate
due to previous incantations
from cranky doges with freaky beards.

oh, the irony on the stoop-
newspaper grabbing
that offers no salvation
beyond garage door openers,
a palm full of sacred ink,
and a clunker up on blocks
behind a rusty orange hoop-
go deep, frisky pointer, go deep:

enjoy the mahogany newel
entombed by a peck of dirt.

HA ha HA HA ha.
HA ha HA HA ha.