Poems are immaterial music.
If laid on the floor become trapdoors.
Each dream is specifically unreal
And every unreal is true too.
The spring sun is a spelling error,
A pantheist without a paycheck.
And it’s pancakes and karate chops
That resurrect the day.
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naïve haircuts 
Love the second line!
Very nice poem. I’m going to write it on the wall of the men’s room at the IHOP–International House of Pantheists.
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“A pantheist without a paycheck.” Oh, I love this notion.
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Incredibly strong line: If laid on the floor become trapdoors.
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Great work! I’ll second all the comments above.
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brilliant, Bob. THis is loony but I like it. Bookmarking tis. It is vintage !!!
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