Stop Making Sense Poem by Clay Dubberly

The blue bird is humming
Though the sap of the sycamore bled
From one end of town to the other
Curled like a garden snake
At the sight of a mouse,
And the injured dog limped away
Like the tick that rode it.

He said the sky was dark as cockroach's back
So he fell through the furnace of a
Cactus which grew like green plates from the ground
And collapsed through the sand like a wave
And fell through the earth like a body
Through a grave that seemed to
Grow from the ground as naturally as
A cup of cider.

The blue bird is still humming
Through the chalice of dirt
And the sycamore bleeds
A river through the town
And follows him like a lost dog
Through an Arabian desert and a
Thousand moons of the Milky Way
And they swam thru the sun
And flipped from the stars
Though the sycamore's cactus had long been gone.