Twelve Bar Blues

With these hands what could I brew
a sober ocean to drown in your pool
where I couldn't gamble
short syllables that stumble
of course in a twelve bar blues.
A dozen numbers to time it right
second handed lefties to be precise
Barring minor sevens
and the freedom to be clever
I never set out to lose.
With a theme its an easier role
to be a wheel on a downhill slope
where everything has been branded
and creation fades in boundaries
on an aging plateau.
At the vent horizon is where I thought
I could park in letters til I was no more
In an accessible celestial
cradle for all our questions
I was left with my twelve bar blues.

Cut and pasted on a godly Wednesday when I wasn't ashed
When frankensteining always count on virgin unstiched luck
to bring together numbers and hands
with awful grammar in the name of art.