Paper dolls of poorly-hewn lunar patchworks

scrunch sadistically beneath a drowsy

main course of crunchy handwriting,

cached in honey garlic coat of

canon-friendly anecdotes,

and graffiti-flavored after-dinner mints.

Eyes and ears crash the floodgates of

forehead tourniquets like a silent auction riot

for the best seats in the amphitheatre

of scholastic mandates, with the main event

to be the quiet one's vocal airbrush taming

of a most surreptitious epitaph.

Letters climb in time proportionate

to the ascending accolades for the acoustics,

in proportion to laments on the red performer's

sinking opportunity to tune his spirit,

and remix an elementally eternal either/or.