Lost Patrol

Blue walls were grottoes,         subterranean panels         for covert messages, the         occasional mot juste         squirrelled up thru paint & memory.         Something like guitar strings dangling         only you employed         tear sheets from Rolling Stone         (counter-culture fly paper         to catch the runny masses).         The blue walls existed as         firing ranges, gunpowder         plots for ideas scribbled         on pencil waves         like the movement         of snakes (or commandoes         on their bellies) thru         desert sand.         Blue walls. Blue grottoes.         Blue moods to temper finger oases         (tap-tap of skeletal tree on your window pane)         crawling thick with pregnant fruition         with the bayonet lull of words.         Snippets of that legacy (hobnailed like a         lost patrol)         forlorn as yellowing pages         or dusky petals unfolding.