Felix the Cat rolls his

clock-eyes and mocks 

anynight o’clock.

Shadow puppets slither

under the yellowy door

with no lock.

Tiny Tears, full of dread,

face down

on the bed.

Tear-soaked and broken,

stuffed friends slowly

open one eye.

Uncle Wiggily’s in a tizzy;

thick black terror

flies by.

Secret places, silent spaces,

sweet drunken eyes

comfort and pry

as shame-stained

tobacco’y fingers

lift color from

shredded skies

Eight long night-years

between tocs and tics...

Cinderella’s feeling sick.
 

Oh, purple moon,

summoned and thin...

Summer. Fall. Winter. Spring 
Where has Mother Goose been?

​

Arrivederci, all the king’s men…