Tomorrow Is Yesterday's Friday Poem by Zac Wittstruck

When the taste of an apple
matches that of canned lice
then it can't be that far
till you reach another abominable shore.
Lines of grass weed out the green
intoxication of mankind
and his little helper
the muskrat.
The heart aches and wakes
to the shakes of its inner sandman.
Meanwhile, the river gate project swells
and the lumberjack inhales dreams.
Offer that to your customers
thirty cents to the ounce
is what the black-faced clown
recommends on his day off.
The twinkles of stones ride
to the stores of mass consumption.
The elderly know exactly what they will pay
and not a penny more or less.
The hat is from Wisconsin when
the rainy season was the slight
chance of failing to cooperate while
under the influence of heavy machinery.

When will the salt of our wounds begin to show
How the mailman starts his every other day
In the life of another old fashioned gay
Pen pal who likes to display his status quo?
Please explain how you may or may not go
Every single time to the bathroom in Mandalay
Right up there with the chandeliers made of clay.
Silver is what you paid for, and so you are old.
Never more will mold be ripe,
And the men are wont to eat
Prior to the sudden news.
Precious few with fallen kites
End the day with frozen feet
Reading books in lakes of pews.

And now the official is towing
his five-legged tripod over the
vast plains of the Atlantic
and thinks of them wisely.
Edward's hands are covered with mud
and the age old recipe of fortnights
long since forgotten.
He sings of his own slavery of the self.
Bewitched are the nightmares that puzzle
the incoherent lateness of word processors
and foldable chairs. Damned be
the plastic overshields.
The doom is imminently unavoidable
in ways you may never understand
the meanings of in your long overalls
and your stretchy mindset.
The rooster who is late is never on time
when it is his turn to soak
in the misspellings of cheap word cycles.
In other words in outer space.
CEO-ologists and media fan bakers
will one day satisfy the needs of
the Albanian albino who lives in the
thin layer of yesterday between tomorrow and Friday.