(co-written by Elder Wombat)

The mangy masters
hold forth bears,
haven’t inside jokes,

though someone trusted
has seen dancing
among highly strange folks

Mr. Oso Humor,
undisguised,
waltzing in a fur-lined suit & tie.

Winks at the masters,
no reply,
black cat on the left, blue cat on the right.

Tails mop the floor
just like mirth
at the birth
of time.

Married to the dirt
as they were
Earth gave worth
by grime.

Ground tremors, air thrums:
Whoosh, boom thrush.
Hushed hail, age &
a place of mind.

All of a sudden
bears’ shackles rust,
strange folks swallowed
by dust’s design.

Fertile void crops up,
menace-playful, divine.
Laughter spreads out to
open hearts & blinds.

[the mangy masters
missed the punchline,
the bears dive down into the void,
out of sight.

As for Mr. Oso Humor,
he stayed above & behind
to meet the masters
eye-for-an-eye.]

If this were a story,
there’d be an end
but jokes don’t play fair &
shackles give way, my friend.

(5/29-31/2017 – North Road, Blue Mounds, Wisconsin & Adams Point, Oakland, California)