february first/on the winter scene burst/some are blest some curst
groundhogs tomorrow/are imbued with magical/prognostication
friday the 13th/february means friday/the 13th in march
other months making fun/of februaries call them/”shortie” “lil febbie”
the late chris farley spoke into a fan:
“l-u-k-e. i-i-i a-a-m y-o-o-u-u-r f-a-a-t-h-h-e-r.”
the fan blades feather-chopped the sound
and made him sound otherworldly.
he was acting like a kid. he was Tommy Boy.
and when we were kids, Boys and Girls,
we clothes-pinned playing cards to our bikes
such that they strummed the wheel spokes
whole the wheels turned
just as a guitar pick strums strings–
or is it that the spokes strum the cards?
we also filled paper bags with exhaled air,
held tightly closed the bag end, and punched
the bag just right, for a loud and satisfying
popping sound.
cellophane and raisin boxes can be made to make
a piercing soprano whistling noise.
the finger-pulled-sideways-through-the-mouth
is still fun. squeezing air between armpit and hand
is juvenile, but so what?
special bags of dried corn and grease make a sound
in the microwave a bit like fireworks, but please,
On Your Life and for the Love of God, do not
use a Microwave
to pop a Weasel.
i: swan
the clock that tells the time counts not/and i’ll not count on it/with mainspring sprung and face besot/i do not give a snit
ii: slow
the peach that prufrock dared to eat/was neither soft nor moist nor sweet/which proves that daring has its place/but swaybacks rarely win the race
iii: peat
that dog from hell may well be love/but give your bread some leaven/by courting fun instead to shove/your carefree way to heaven
iv: gone
back to the woods and road diverged/and at the fork a dime/”so THAT’S the DIFFERENCE??!” “yup,” bob urged,/”so pick it up and climb.”
eggs is
existential
full of
raw potential
quickened
by a visit
from a crowing
rooster.
eggs is
deferential
to the
exponential
ovaries though
over easy
isn’t much a
booster.
somehow Dorothy/became Aunt Dodo. i tell/you, it was aukward.
a hummingbird worked/as a dental hygienist/known as Numbing Bird.
blue-footed boobies/in throes of erotic love/act like the Rockettes.
the hood of my car/was sarcastically bombed/with two Mockingturds.
when the Pigeon/indignantly walked by it/flipped me a Human.
.
Fun fact: My mother really had an Aunt Dodo. I do not know if her real name was Dorothy.
I grabbed a ball-point pen/And then untied a shoe/Unclad my foot and then/Inked up my archeroo.
“Step lively,” I affirmed/Near nail and metatarsal/In cursive supradermed/”If Wit won’t do, a Farce’ll,”
I wrote behind the heel,/And then be-ringed the ankle/”Brace. Let.” And then “Pig deal”/And asked, “Foot Odor rankle?”
Reshod, I walked untrippingly/And grinned, O Me-O, My-O,/I’d added, sanity-tippingly,/Some Footnotes to my bio.
sink a sword till all you see is hilt/that is what is known as running through/but violence begets guilt/or not/rejection is to jilt/eh wot/abandonment of meter for instance/may bring a grammarian’s remonstrance/ but rules are made to be set atilt/and mine some newness from the silt
if a plant lacks wahwah it will wilt/but a filter is never one who filts
awkward language and a leg lengthener both stilt/just as the shaky premise on which/this mess of words is built
don’t get me started on kilt or milt/but sew some squares and you’ll have a quilt
instance and remonstrance/are a monstrous slantlack rhyme/but a scant Kant canticle or rant/will get you everthyme
after you stop reading/and unspool this non-sense feeding/if you search on “inns near me”/there undoubtedly will be/a nearby Conrad comrade to which you may with lusty snort resort/and live maximally and guestedly/by getting your hilt on
and on on that note i’ll bid adieu/please sheathe your sword don’t run me through
i certainly dig/the garnishy sprig/that sits on the edge of the plate
in restaurants fine/with twelve-dollar wine/a nice place to go with a date
but wait that’s the past/i now look aghast/and find that sauce-dribbling is trendy
and wine will not flow/unless you can show/a wallet two-hundred-bucks spendy
so switch your devour/to that happy hour/that has tasty bar food for cheap
but don’t be too sparsely/about that good parsley/that good produce sections still keep
One with Clay, Image and Text 