Leap year into forgotten wonder bra commercial
where a young lass’s hair ain’t all that bounces like a quarter
off a sticky bar or the driving rain off the hood of a car port
in a quaint New England town overlooking Long Island Sound
and the spawn of a million oysters to end up as empty shells on tables amid fables of barroom romances from a century ago and actors like Grant and Gable who were able to say more with a wink than a good long Plato think on the underprivileged and lack of clean drinking water or vapor in the form of Vader and the force that pulls us all in some precarious direction or perhaps to the top of the masthead in a magazine or a vessel of blood drop oozing from the corner of a wolf’s mouth somewhere in the deep south of Jack London’s mind behind the steaming carcass of progress and inevitable debt and dirty diapers that the earth brings to the unsuspecting moms who accept the challenge in return for fading beauty and eternal memory of all to be accomplished and soon to be forgotten until the next spin of the dice thrice more behind
the creaking door where Poe did urinate his poetry on solemnity or crancousity or some other absurd word never heard before I wrote this post so that most could turn a blind eye and rattle the center stone within Nathaniel Hawthorne or woebegone internet porn and teenagers broadcasting their boredom to anyone who will listen or write some trite nonfiction of catastrophe and blasphemy while grabbing their balls and spitting in the ocean to be devoured by the oyster before it is devoured in the eternal circle of life and death and backwoods crystal meth to promote sleepless anxiety
for pharmacies to tackle like a crooked quarterback sweating steroids from his eyeballs to the glory of a million more who will wake up sore and check the score of the price of wheat
before they beat their feet to the drum of another day whose outcome lay amid the fray of a medieval hangman’s noose.
where a young lass’s hair ain’t all that bounces like a quarter
off a sticky bar or the driving rain off the hood of a car port
in a quaint New England town overlooking Long Island Sound
and the spawn of a million oysters to end up as empty shells on tables amid fables of barroom romances from a century ago and actors like Grant and Gable who were able to say more with a wink than a good long Plato think on the underprivileged and lack of clean drinking water or vapor in the form of Vader and the force that pulls us all in some precarious direction or perhaps to the top of the masthead in a magazine or a vessel of blood drop oozing from the corner of a wolf’s mouth somewhere in the deep south of Jack London’s mind behind the steaming carcass of progress and inevitable debt and dirty diapers that the earth brings to the unsuspecting moms who accept the challenge in return for fading beauty and eternal memory of all to be accomplished and soon to be forgotten until the next spin of the dice thrice more behind
the creaking door where Poe did urinate his poetry on solemnity or crancousity or some other absurd word never heard before I wrote this post so that most could turn a blind eye and rattle the center stone within Nathaniel Hawthorne or woebegone internet porn and teenagers broadcasting their boredom to anyone who will listen or write some trite nonfiction of catastrophe and blasphemy while grabbing their balls and spitting in the ocean to be devoured by the oyster before it is devoured in the eternal circle of life and death and backwoods crystal meth to promote sleepless anxiety
for pharmacies to tackle like a crooked quarterback sweating steroids from his eyeballs to the glory of a million more who will wake up sore and check the score of the price of wheat
before they beat their feet to the drum of another day whose outcome lay amid the fray of a medieval hangman’s noose.