Mr. Q? (is the truth)
(with flowers sprouting from his midnight-skin
zang boots)
in a red blue red yellow purple pink loop suit
- gift from space/time travellers'
radio signals,
letter-patterns -

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
reckless angels
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
somewhere (!)
you can't follow
- I have to get out of here. -
He says to his shadow.
This ingested information eats
the imagination.
Goodbye: The walking carnival
footstep rhythm
boots tap
down unfound exit streets
tap tap
the leaving legacy of Mr. Q?

Andrew Penland

If you've any comments on this poem, Andrew Penland would be pleased to hear from you.