If it was God invented mucus for our sinus cavities,
He’d be the damned George Lucas of headspace depravities.
Nasal canals fill up with liquid that turns into rock,
then melts again and squirms like squid and dribbles down one’s frock.
Thank doctors for their decongestants, drying up face tunnels.
Without them we’d be like contestants, racing to fill funnels.
If God invented sinus drip, it had to be a crock.
No maker would be quite so flip lest He owned Kleenex stock.
They found him under Milk Duds,
dead in a movie seat.
The melted chocolate caramel
was all stuck to his feet.
His death was quite a mystery,
but there were several hints.
His eyes were stuck with Jujubes,
mouth filled with Junior Mints.
"Aha! I’ve found the cause of death,"
yelled out a local copper,
pulled from the throat, big as a boat,
breathtakingly, a Whopper.
There was a walrus
used to hang with whales.
His bonding efforts
all were epic fails.
He had no blubber
nor blow hole.
He didn’t have
a whaling soul.
His tusks, they said,
were too damned long.
He couldn’t sing
the whaling song.
His body couldn’t glide
throughout the water.
They shunned him
and he said, Okay,
go on about
your humpback way.
I’ll miss your krill,
but I won’t miss
I think I hear daylight coming.
Its trashing cans crash,
motors rev and voices sprinkle.
Sometimes I try to lock it out
with blankets, shades and pills,
but not today.
Today I am eager for reflection.
Another twelve-hour fire
has been lit and I am ready
to be consumed.
Soon enough the darkness
will reclaim me.
I throw this blazing day
into its way.
Silent summer white lines in the sky
always made me think that soon we’d die;
more so coinciding with the noontime air raid test,
neck craning to spot the fatal mushroom cloud out west.
Hunkered under desks in red brick schools:
looking back it seems that we were fools.
No one even talks of nukes or world war any more.
Now it’s just unending conflict as the news keeps score.
The true man needs
an armored vessel,
heavy woolen gloves
and many pelts;
guns and knives,
blunt tools and bullets,
held in place by holsters
clipped on belts.
I admit to only one such need,
racing storm-soaked streets
at breakneck speed.
If you look outside
and see it’s raining,
know I’m on the road,
Belle, my beauty, out of time,
stop this hand from writing
these strange entries in your journal.
Make the flowers grow somewhere
just out of sight of man.
Make the aged father leak
so weakly in a pan.
Shine the moon upon the sun,
reverse despotic oceans.
Make us get a healthy tan.
Provide the proper lotions.
And on your last sweet smell of breath,
blow smoke to heal the nation.
Create for us better roads
and faster transportation.
Better to mistake the facts
than pay the deadly ratter’s tax.
I always felt the better man
when I could keep it in the can.
Big mouths sink ships.
The Fifth is pips.
End to end
your biggest test will be:
can you co-exist this silently.
No machines nor music
will you hear.
Is sound so dear?
Next life you will only
talk in tales, thought bubbles
if everything else fails.
It’s no good cooking meat now,
when the universe is fasting.
Surrounded by a tripwire,
either way there’s blasting.
Some folks fear the cowboys’ pride
enhancing man’s undoing.
The trees that whisper sweet consent
betray explosion brewing.
All the world’s a speeding dot on someone’s radar gun.
We’re the moving pieces of the television son.
Dejection chords obtain unholy vim in trumpet layers.
Competing shirt and shoe ads vie intensively for players.
Chemicals and bullets have weighed down the paper ship.
Please go to your local drugstore for a scripted tip.
General Hysteria has wed Major Depression.
Their poison logo tears have now translated this recession.
Revenge tattoos have patented the talon.
Hurtful death’s now packaged by the gallon.