The Land of Socks - Dustin Vado
I lost
my key
somewhere near
where Tupac and Elvis
party with yucca man,
in the same hood as
every lost sock,
and the fawn keeps staring.
What is a rabbit hole
without rabbits
or carrots
ground into onions
between the potatoes
(or mold?)
growing into vodka crevices
hidden under dryers
and mad hats,
and the fawn keeps staring.
But the key
is still lost
and outside is
no place for socks
without shoes
to hoard
their fuzz
or feet
to miss their comfort,
and a rabbit hole
filled with dead flowers
that shines like sun
through crystal -
every color
without sight to name its cousins
where the thoughts should be
and where the caterpillar learned to fly
and where all the lost socks gather
and the fawn
keeps staring.
This elephant must be pottery
to be the feature of
clay,
the color of dead flowers
and alternative lifestyles
too foolish to check
the vodka crevices
for other lovers of the Serengeti
coexisting
yet unable to name
their cousins
or toes,
and
the
fawn
keeps
staring.
There is no way for light to escape
the fern gully where the cousins
meet for a bonfire
on foggy beaches,
warm in their socks
and hearts
among family
in the real heaven
as bright as
crystal shining
through onions
on laundry day,
and their fibered
faces lend smiles
to every phrygian
toe missing its cover
on cold nights
when not even the fawn
feels like staring,
and lost is found
in the land of socks.
my key
somewhere near
where Tupac and Elvis
party with yucca man,
in the same hood as
every lost sock,
and the fawn keeps staring.
What is a rabbit hole
without rabbits
or carrots
ground into onions
between the potatoes
(or mold?)
growing into vodka crevices
hidden under dryers
and mad hats,
and the fawn keeps staring.
But the key
is still lost
and outside is
no place for socks
without shoes
to hoard
their fuzz
or feet
to miss their comfort,
and a rabbit hole
filled with dead flowers
that shines like sun
through crystal -
every color
without sight to name its cousins
where the thoughts should be
and where the caterpillar learned to fly
and where all the lost socks gather
and the fawn
keeps staring.
This elephant must be pottery
to be the feature of
clay,
the color of dead flowers
and alternative lifestyles
too foolish to check
the vodka crevices
for other lovers of the Serengeti
coexisting
yet unable to name
their cousins
or toes,
and
the
fawn
keeps
staring.
There is no way for light to escape
the fern gully where the cousins
meet for a bonfire
on foggy beaches,
warm in their socks
and hearts
among family
in the real heaven
as bright as
crystal shining
through onions
on laundry day,
and their fibered
faces lend smiles
to every phrygian
toe missing its cover
on cold nights
when not even the fawn
feels like staring,
and lost is found
in the land of socks.