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
1919 protest.

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
to regress
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.


Days rant
epochs nap