The sugar packet parlor gleamed with artificial charm
in the dull summer haze we call liberty.
Somewhere, somehow, someone knows a better way
to portion sugar.
nobody made an effort to explain the intricacies
of our package-centric society,
the landfill-clogging generation
content to leverage children
for bleach bottles.
Doesn’t nature have its own ingenious packaging
already set in motion?
We obtained our paper and plastic
from butchering the landscape and its inhabitants
and dumping their carcasses into vast piles
for our lacking wits.
An elephant walks into a clown
at the grocery store.
The clown says “Hey Donnie,
ya just broke a rib.”
The elephant says “No, I’m fine.
You’d better get that nose checked out, though.”
Stitch witch Fernandez, folly smell polly otter britches for the love of how many lost sailors in the sea of temerity and sometimes regretful lust? Who doesn’t associate sailors with regretful lust these days anyway? Those poor ladies and gents take a pill and forget their troubled soda fountain fantasies, being king and queen at the prom, being king and queen at the prison camp, being king and queen at nothing at all. But they must tell themselves they are king and queen at everything in particular, or the PTSD will sink in, groaning bottlecaps of philosophy until there’s nothing left to them and to all their dedicated brethren, shackled to jingle bell fury (not unlike bongo fury, just around the Winter months with tinsel). Oh, those poor intrepid wanderers of the human invertebrate psyche, those who develop thoughts according to their predestiny, their density assured for at least three tours of duty. And nobody cares anyway. They’re all wondering how they can somehow stand out amongst the other clowns, the sick practitioners of boredom for aesthetics’ sake, those poor intrepid sailors who think they’re taking life by the horns; they don’t understand.
What? Oh, nothing. I was just sharpening a shoehorn and calling it my mother. Move along, nothing to see here, crowface. I’m sorry, crowface is insensitive. Raven countenance suits you better? Okay, I’ll remember that from now on.
Powdered telltale foghorns love our indecisions, oh don’t they though? They laugh at us through cheeky grins of early incandescence, pretty little snitches bitching anyway they may for the sake of everything larger than the scale of a matchbox car. Ha, if only they knew the folly of thinking such lovely sights and telling such lovely frights to the neighbors.