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paste!
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How many fingers made of white meat
am I holding up? There must be trouble.
Whenever basil gets snipped
the lungs of small farmers deflate
like egos of roads not on maps.
Take my hand and tell me that I exist
for more than one reason.
Low sodium, crunchy fabulous.
Wings are for those not occupied
with the dancing of liquid on a table.
The angles are all muffed up,
so the fisher points the boat to the east
and his day becomes tidier and infinite.
Man, this town is like a microcosm
of cinnamon strudel in chubby hands.
Attempts at ordaining, blacking out
formlessly, are welcome. Leave
the black lights on. Eat the oats.
Like the Whistler at Manfried’s Cove
once said, tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeet
until you can tweet no more.
It’s disgusting. This poem has no future.
When it flushes an ethanol-based solution
into it’s fitting pipes it’ll be blown away
by the secrets of proportion: never
leave your rice cakes in rice fields.
I have no more water or patience.
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021229
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