deepundergroundpoetry.com
the scarecrow always loved her
the land stretches flat for miles
in austere black&white
so Victorian & without drama.
our homes are gingerbread redundancies
adorned with dry floral wallpaper
and ancient furniture made sturdy
by long dead artisans;
bleak & oblique.
but we make it cinemascopic
by telling ourselves
there’s no place like it.
the colors are non-technic even in our dreams
where romance is a stoic procession
of tin men & catatonic lions.
the farmhands have done what they can
to rob the richness from the soil
and an old woman strikes a dinner chime
to remind us that we are still in Kansas.
I will hi-lite my secrets for you, Bud
with the hammer of my heart
as we wait for the redemptive cyclone
that will carry us all
to the Emerald City…
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