we must take our sacred medicine now.
the last victim has pulled into his parking spot.
a jury of your piers will now be swept out to sea
by an irrational storm's impulse.
toxic doggy bags will become the new shangri la.
frankenstein's monster was overheard on an intellectual cable show
telling the wolfman that the moon wasn't always
shining on the up and up.
the wolfman didn't reply, he was busy ogling
the new splendiferous anchor lady
he remembered her from catholic school
when altar boys weren't altered too dramatically
her name used to be garrulous
but now when she attempts to chew gum
her incisors shrill.
we must bury the evidence by 5:45 pm
or the water bill will go up.
nasty men and women will check out all the worthwhile books
from the library,
and the thinker will come to life and
pummel dobie gillis beyond
recognition.
there's still a few seconds left on
the shot's clock,
but the syringe claims its on a first name basis
with your parole board.
this morning my senses were taken.
please return your emotions to the accounting office no later
than sunday, midnight.
time to dodge bullets, and heavy traffic.
time to soft shoe it through the spotless kitchen,
please refrain from making noise
or oblivion will serve you with a subpoena.
i used to be a village idiot
until the cutbacks sent me packing.
may i brew you some coffee?
may i have your daughter's hand?
the left one will be just fine,
as right things make me nervous.
your ipod is on the prod and
the sounds of silence scream from the cheap seats
that not all acoustics give you a fair hearing.
last night a tiny wounded human
discovered gold in his navel.
authorities were vehement,
they poured single malt scotch over their heads.
frankenstein's monster is editing a lonely hearts column.
the wolfman is now an anchor on CNN.
maybe you could send the chief justice out for
take home.
he'd no doubt eat half of it before returning with your change,
but we eat too much these days,
according to erudite scarecrows
who are also part time lifeguards
at the baths of bewilderment.
lunacy prevails in every testimonial
that hums its way into your spleen.
you too can avoid paying taxes,
take your shoes off and toss them at
the imploding make a wish upon a guest star.
take one last good look around
familiarize yourself with the mutating landscape
the club house will close its doors very soon
and you'll be in need of a witness
who won't garble the testimony
that just might get you clear.
tell mom and dad i'll return the car
as soon as i drive it through the next wonderful new
year end sale,
at this rate the year will end and end and end and end
but frankly i trust beginner's luck
especially when it's false teeth
fly across the sky
looking for a tree limb
that will not be too much in a hurry
to
wither.
      fairport convention
      house full live in l.a.
      1970 troubadour

Scott Wannberg
Scott Wannberg is author of strange movie full of death. “lives the quiet florence,oregon life. believes in strother martin.”