"There's no poetry between us"
Said the paper to the pen
"And I get nothing for my trouble
But the ink beneath my skin"
If your clothes are getting weary
And your soul's gone out of style
Blame the miracle mile
And the bottom of the ladder
My Pomeranian is a fruit-loop, ten bowls and a spoon full of Splenda that the FDA never got around to approving. It's insidious in a whisper but laughable at night when the open mouths all chatter and clouds lift their heels and let the heat out the way. She wore a cornerstone around her waste and a keystone she never bothered to shave except on the weekends after sex and salt had made their way to the beach and dried up on the lichen and leaches, and that’s not all bad if it weren’t for the bus fare and the long drive back at 2 A.M. That's right, pause and rinse, spit a few kazoo castanets before you role down the window, otherwise the landlady might scream about the overdue novel or orgasm or exceptional circumstances of the life you left upstairs and two doors off to the left. Completely plausible though it may be, the orange wedges do not come buttered prior to the 22nd century, not before our crags and nose slopes taper off and the skull fragments of the frog you once held in the osh kosh pocket are scooped up and thought wrongly for the next pop album Wham decides to release. I only say wham because hatred is worth putting two in the hat and waltzing my fair lady in a derby gown and Worcestershire tainted cheddar, only because I am completely mad and the rest of the world has an anger management issue to resolve before little Timmy Connors is allowed to play tricycle with it again.
Clever. Not so much as Cleaver, June, or Ward, they were the same, no? Like mounds and almond joy switching dire for drag and a dope nose habit squirming tissues through the plexus caudal to the dream, they weren't so innocent or bequeathed of any special certainty leftover from the fear generated an era before Jackie Gleason managed to name the characters sent off to the moon 30 years on. 30 years from now. 30 years today. It's an open book jacket, the dust covered plastic bound in masking tape and a folly of a narrative that even Hemingway thought more of a joke than Gertrude Stein, a sallow cheeky fellow in rain gear and a quarter to call home, but no one told of the long distance charge associated with extraterrestrial Etcha-Sketches, tuna sammiches, peanut butter, or the 0[o]zone. That's why we as kids ate Elmer (the DRA was way too high, you see) and needed no enthusiastic mammaries to tell us that white mustaches were better than Dirty Sanchez in Cleveland where the steamers were rolling over Detroit.
Oh, she played on words, too, you know, a grand game called Su Doku [soodookoh] that the window lickers liked to chew on because the Quaker fellow's hat seemed a bit too brimmed for the brisk, baby. The rug-munchers [rats] in kindergarten wonder why their pallantine sinus aches from the ice cream, so they gave em all ferrets and told them that they'd cocoon and pupate and rebirth to puppies at Christmas, but only if you leave them in a sealed egg carton underground. Fuckers. The problem with lying and laying is the lack of stimulation for creativity, like a perfect team its been beating on itself since time immemoriam [hippie days, for the layme people], so much so that the horses caught wind and fought off Hitler single handed just to get a go at that leggy Eva Braun fellow. Parturition was the last straw for dad-dums, what with his post apocalyptic cubist phase, something about the paint fumes I'm sure. Had anyone been astute enough to throw salve on the bee-sting in-between her heroin tracks, they might've seen that tiniest of tattoos, the Mona Lisa of life's artful bookmarks, but sadly the dress was already around her waste and the fingers clenching elsewhere. And in all the mad madness bereaving, like Xavier, life is elsewhere. Life is elsewhere.
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