Boo-Ya
My child, my child, my child, My child, My child, there are bobcats hiding
by G Keller
Every smell has a number one fan.
The dock workers fell in love with the man who runs.
Shall the cosmic fetch a sideswiped motorcycle from the scrap heap or should
the reign of fire move onto smaller projects (like popping all of the popcorn) ?
My child, my child, my child, My child, My child, there are bobcats hiding
inside of your temper. Do objects hate you back? Convention for convent
residents, going real bad, an open bar for nuns? Each ass of its own hair. A
crystal ball shatters. Apologize for all of the broken glass! Here, nick knack,
Hide. Go in and Fall way out of line with respect. The middle part falls like
empires; again and again. Show everything to him, hell, he'll take it, and open
up a store. Croaking Shame.
G Keller wrote some poems after a long conversation with the Susquehanna River and is glad that we can share this moment together. Find more of G (me) here;
Twitter: @moon_voyeurism
Instagram: g.b.keller
