Your pennies full of thoughts of flossy, floral-print foulards, you follow the penny-farthings, the blear in your eyes blurring the wheels in wraiths of righteous wrath. With several of your other selves in silk and chintz to cheer you, you’ll change the fate of fetid kings debased in times of treble. You’ll trill the way paella chefs once railed to ruse the roost. You had to hack the brambles back and splash in brackish water, hang the hollow hornet’s nest and pile the pillaged plank, but you’re ready to raid the roundhouse now, so break out the radiant raiment. A bow to tie would be a blast, would be a badge to boast, but satin mask and cape of crepe make any fool sublime, any time the full moon flies in a mind aligned with Mars, so saddle up the mare. Prepare to rend the rafters. There’s none of what you waitressed for to forge you through the forest now, none of what you foraged for to hide inside your drawers. There’s everything you lost to launch you. She was the last to laugh, but that was the last of your lashes, so put on the boots you bargained for. You paid with the ash you urned.

KARL ROULSTON, harp in hand, flings his brand of words and bluesic in and around New York City. His written works can be found in several great weather for MEDIA anthologies, including the upcoming 2017 edition. Look for his odds and ends on Youtube.