Soft as fontanelle, like a lover’s seat in the dirigible that oversees the parsing a dialect of bubbles, with a paprika of the off blue sea. Tragic made to hitchhike. A swagger on the water. Blitzkrieg of memos for the marigolds. Crux is round at the corners. It’s raining, for lack of tears on the cheeks of the slackjawed. Little holies everywhere, dredged and hermetically sealed for fear of falling skies. Thimble divers checking for prints in a stitch in time saves nine whole yards of what’s not thought to be the life as lived on water.
What Not
A flirt with two stirrups and a luxury liner sealing the hole in your pants. Ovoid mama’s helper squared to fit Attila’s thumb. Dorsal fins punctuating the bathtub. Pollyanna pushing banana fudge as antidote to marmalade in the bell jar’s starring role. The astronomers count their stars lucky. Knee deep, Polyphemus sloshes ashore. The doorman holds the whitest of buildings in his hand, whistling like the mockingbird his mother had taught him to be. Not in so many stages of life. But for free. Forever. Stupefaction rules the nanosecond. Wait an era. One eyed meter readers wearing goggles to the never ending prom.
French Doors
Well heeled adagio in descent. The soon is coming. Hollyhocks on the sallyport. An algebra of tippy toes. Harvest the moon. Replenish. Daub the nitwits with cooking oil. Stomach the flattery of the sun drenched at nighty night. Hold what slippery concedes. Abut the warmth of pigeons fleshing out history’s swell. Adorn the unequivocal with doubt. Ahoy. Both five and dime. Land’s end beginning in the muddle of how I met your mother. How I stole the show of hands. Eclipsed in the homestretch of lucky’s love for English muffins. Kewpie dolls poised for battle. The tilt of righted minds in the choir.
Right on Roosevelt
Adenoidal eloquence dispensed in grog of toodle-oo’s. Christian burial in dirty work absolving tennis elbow in the door. A trail mix of banter and brawn. Fundament in the cleats, strode the plank to pass act three of congress. A popular treat in 1902. Sandwiched stood to ridicule the saint of teflon leanings. Muleskinner. Refrigerated acolyte. An extenuated leg, other foot. Tongue sponged taffy drooler made to think in threes. A saga. Feeble as feasible in the interstellar. But not here, the people clamored. Radical lounged. As I saw. I swam. The gracing of participles with nothing to wear. The versions vary according unwanted guests. As the immensities are porous. A tyranny of footprints left to wander aimlessly. Polygamists fudging with bombshells. A respite spelled in looking elsewhere. Not where. The where else can you make your mark of Cain. If not muted screaming tuning the piano to the key to the city. A balm. Another glory. A handsome toad. The view is everything you said it wouldn’t matter. Whether or knotted they come. To glide over the dance floor of who I am. Not an avenue. Strudel tossing pig farmers marginalizing the infinity of inner space. Approximate consuming. But far be it. Go to it. The ponder-able prairies stippled with mugshots of pioneers, gracing wet willies of the wisp with a name so common it sleeps on the tongue of a tourist. A circuitously fastest way possible to rend a tale inert. A caught betwixt. Friction’s escort. Dump and dollar down on the pony in red. The ephemera will still be here in the morning.
The Birth of Etcetera
Some days I’m not in the mood for my raincoat. The hobble out to the woodshed I’ve become. Token of a myopic mysticism, entranced by cinderblocks and lipstick scrawled in Sanskrit forging bonds of gooey clay. Graffiti on the walls of the inscrutable. Every now and when I see a cartoon laugh of jackals haunting an echo of old shoes. A stubborn collage of noises unmeant to turn a head to think. To dally in a cocoon of circles assured of dying light of fires in the holes that bring the mountains round as well.
