Triumphs Again!

And we triumphed once so we will triumph again
under the eyes of of the silver-suited moon men.
No matter which slides or ladders we take,
we can only go up to the land of melted birthday cake.
Ducks on fire and chimps on parade,
red hot wire in the afternoon shade.
By the breezy willow trees we will make merry and rejoice
the coming of the dogs in red hats, the many-buttoned sailors, the clouds of rainbow steam from misty archipelagos, and the xylophone man with the gold-threaded voice.
In times to come and later days,
the little giraffes will sing our praise
from modest leaves on which they prance,
strange, obscure, in a lost expanse.

Weirdness. Wonderful weirdness. Wonderful lonely stews of bubbling nonsense
diligently marching to the beat of a drunken pile of laundry.
Only a lack of hats and haircuts will keep us warm
as we press on to a spot, a bubble, a place, a refuge, a tree that grows in and out and all around.
 Wrangling the strange in a strange wrangle-dangle
and finding the points and the lines and the angles
maybe we'll make something honest and good
like a wild west wrestler, fig-newton Jesus would.