Late afternoon, cement patio, I sip
politically-charged sherry as a perfumed dusk
farms never-tornadoes and used medicine.
Hail blueberry burgers
that hail from roadside chapmen:
– a dainty peach here, a deft hornbook there.
Grinding his jawbone into his mandible
socket, the vendor spits cherry pits
into windows of cars
gliding down River Road to Saint Vital.
~ Given today’s headlines, which time-stamp
hurts the worst?
~ Which cartoon caption defers the tart zing
of a nepotistic lobster-claw brunch?
~ And how, you add, does ID work?
Not twice, but thrice, the guest proofreader threw
the humdrum out with the dehydrated
dishes no muss, no
A pastel comparison lures a margarine contranym.
Evidently, my crow costume precedes me
just as mourning settles
into mud flaps and brie-encrusted flapjacks.
~ Does wild sage scent only conjure hand-sanitizing regret?
~ Ought that runic diviner come to dine?
~ If Confusion Corner works, then how often
does the city repay its sweltering tarmac?
Forsooth! My VHS
doth forage plentiful Sound Advice:
– slip opal onto your tongue to cure desiccation
– rake or straddle public pools
– harbour half a sentence inside an episodic volta
– roll up yoga mats from north to south
– listen cautiously to sunup owls
– comb zucchini noodles liberally
– ban left-over ice chips
– wave at waves
– invent bunk
Just then, the bleepin spell-checker hip-checks
the *beepin* goalie
and a version of self-publisher
blunders through volumes and volumes
of saved-up internet etiquette.
Whelp, prototyping doesn’t fix anything.
Oh, for the chance
perchance to vex!
~ Except, what if it never works to cut across
the Perimeter Beltway?
~ What if rubber-stamps favour auxiliary verbs?
~ Might not ample donut-dustings broker
trade with blokes who censure the copula?
Seven times I’ve solved the gopher puzzle
and nine times you’ve taunted a parched come-back.
Pies needn’t always shape the antiquated
hour. When you lemonize
your tongue, eleventeen comrades savour
tomorrow’s frosty syntax.
Mown lawns brush over sour crab debris, whilst
a blown aphorism blends into all that (prairie) flotsam.
Methinks, sometimes, we both agree with everyone.