Mr. Q? (is the
(with flowers sprouting from his midnight-skin
in a red blue red yellow purple pink loop suit
- gift from space/time travellers'
he plays a guitar to paint the songs,
blow harmonica spattered dots, and spider notes
in vertical columns (fixed shimmering
in) the fraggle-hair sky holding
123ing across matted metacanvas(es?)
winking thought-eyes at our soul-deep
singer-soul of Mr. Q?
making the wild ride floating his ballooon
to suburban New Moon
(the green ghetto space sprawledin)
skyscrapers and spiderwebs;
It's intricate tai chi he walks through
junk seeking salvation
in the eyes of gypsy cats
collects paint powders beneath
sweeping shadows and stage lights with
(the balloon parked in a faraway corner)
and Mr. Q?
clown-faced smile stretching
a ladybug electrode sucking on his face
(like a cybernetic teardrop)
on his eyeball edges. His only addiction
(every artist has one)
= data in his tearduct
He has to go
you can't follow
- I have to get out of here. -
He says to his shadow.
This ingested information eats
Goodbye: The walking carnival
down unfound exit streets
the leaving legacy of Mr. Q?
If you've any comments on this poem, Andrew Penland would be pleased to hear from you.