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paste!
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on the chessboard there is a brown cow
melting concourses by its gravelly voice
with a dead ringer for champ bailey.
“i am daisy as purgatorial salad,” the cow begins,
melting into rain, “my three children
are becoming calves of valium.”
champ bailey’s mime the palsy interrogates,
“but sir, if you repeat into the shako,
a csako adapted for table use, the twitty,
the fields whittle themselves into grain
without our services, so do you, so can you?”
to which the cow replies, “ah newfoundland,
i first spent yentl on the hide of ishtar’s gramophone,
the times were of quadrupled terrycloth
as laid on the brow of heatersburg the clot,
a rag of lapis lazy boy stench beneath
my own set of cloth dedicated
to fish shaved of three public styles,
sparrow gimlet shifting well-breasted and unified
like the marrow of drapery spent
on shattered daylight as we parody our nabisco zeros.”
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040419
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