Skip to main content

The Unusual Constant

Like a doctor in underwear, the decade began.

Cocktails implore in a language all too common. Forget pencils now: serve crunchy things. The day becomes evening. Something blends memorably.

Wet bars produce a relaxed economy. Russians in their doctor clothes tell dated woodpecker jokes, freezing image of next pay check.

People do not drink vodka. A case of doctoral bourbon sits by the couch. We dream of the freshest ice cubes, the ones with ripping edges to disturb the frumpy. On the coast, people believe another coast exists.

A summer get together and crunchy things. Perhaps the lowly dump truck bears the seed for tomorrow’s flying car. Your doctor friend will want three. We dream of artichokes, scads of them filling the back seat. Flying cars on the horizon, in homage to something Allen Ginsberg said in May.

A bowl of mulligatawny soup later, with all the propriety of crunchy things.
You look nice today, as a considered advantage of excellent crunchy snacks. Viscous snacks are sad dollops, crushing intent. A wave of pity associates with crinoline like an apron that could be the next political move. Storage consists of wet bars, and the clutter of Soviet intention.

Children of cocktails bury mesmerized mice in downy softness. Allegiance is priceworthy. Pick a planet to annoy, grey leader.
The poem, scarred by Star Trek (The Next Generation), flirts for the new decade. New decades promulgate new headaches. A doctor wears the pants of morose technology, tuckered out by golf stretches and moonbeams. Cocktails and crunchy things provide situational ethics for the blast off generation.

Bulked up servings of crunch, snap, and apt phrases drone from the crinoline depths of the future train pathway, long before pwned. Indeed, campers sit in the festoon of broken crackers, klaxon cocktails, bungled wobble. The sentence is incentive now. Adjectives are loose.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Words

  From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.

Adam Sandler Has Totally Lost It. Okay?

The greatest popular person in the world died today. Repeat: this person was young, with exceptionally pleasant features forced of radial tires. Each star in the empyrean sighed for lack of this locus of popularity. Humdrum took on new meaning, but meaning did not. Meaning is a wave of popularity toward the sigh of exceptional stars. These stars are good-looking reminders of all that is possible, tho distant from any address. Tears flowed to the heart of the Milky Way, because the popular person stood tall and well-dressed, like sentimental eagles drinking Bud Light while evoking timeless mythic pediments. The greatest of popular signs grew milky with waves of stars over easy oceans of just plain folk stalking the best. We remain ardent, tho the popular person can no longer contribute. We have to look in magazines again, for the source and severing. Levers used for leverage feel average. Again the popular trout, the popular doorknob, the popular brand of sweetened, flavoured, f...

Today's Widespread Panic Concert, Sans Banjo

The banjo is dead. Those included in banjo are dead. Inclusion is dead. Death is dead banjo dead. Its banjo is dead. The name of its death is dead. Name is dead. Its political act is dead. It sound like banjo but dead. It no time to be banjo. You must remain a rope with language and dulcimer. Only dulcimer live. All banjo dead. You are banjo, Donald Trump. Hurry up Donald dead,  untimely to dead still dead like words. You and banjo both. You is dead and you too.