Competition smoked
in a quarter of a mile
or something like that,
though I can’t say for sure
how many penguin daisies
it takes to screw in a lightbulb.
I fail to see the point
of penguin daisies
even wanting artificial light–
their habitat has absolutely
no fabrication of any kind,
so how do you think they’d feel
if you blocked the sun
and turned on a lamp?
I’d be pretty damn scared.
Noxious fumes have got a grip on me–
there’s no mistaking a fatal odor
for a month-old egg salad. Oh,
apparently there is. Thank you,
Earl Tupper, for living your dream
and letting us forget about leftovers
for a while until they turn color
or at least grow fur.
It’s a marvelous thing
to behold with one’s eyes
the improper correction of tests;
there’s red ink all around
and a frenzy of penstrokes
laying waste to this
charming
little
office,
sprayed
every
day.
The triple sec bandit
strikes again,
just as Johnny and his chainsmoke gang
prepare for Margarita Monday,
that alco-holiest of days.
Benny the Bootlicker
stepped aside once more
with humility, the only
thing he ever really had.
This time he lost a pie-eating contest
to that bozo two counties over.
After all the face-stuffing
and side-splitting, Benny gave up
another half-written dream.
Door fragments post turmoil
in twister conditions.
Wooden shrapnel
sticks out of trees–
returned to the family
in shards and chips
after losing roots
and framing ape huts.
I’m having a tricky time
pulling my thumbs
from this tangled extinction event–
I know I can use them
for the rest of my life
[if my life were to continue tomorrow].
But no matter my strategy,
I’m trapped and helpless,
my thumbs getting stiffer by the minute.
Now I know how those poor dogs feel
when they try to answer the telephone.
WHARVED 