a monkey wrote this

Hovering 2

A soggy beach ball wedged between cotton sheets
spreads noiseless destruction when left unattended.
It’s hiding from a magnified truth, something once folded
that now imposes a grapevine of extra-strength aspirin.
Semi-deflated and drumming with concern, slippery when wet;
always cornered, cowering from preconceived needles.

B P I Chronicles 2

B: Where’s the bartender? I need a drink. What’s that you’ve got there?

P: A caramel-infused jalapeño mojito.

B: Oh dear lord that looks awful.

P: You’d be surprised at just how awful this drink is.

B: Then stop drinking it!

P: I paid for it, genius. Plus, it’s not doing too bad a job. How are you, bud?

B: Thirsty. Bartender!

I: Hey, whadd’ya want?

B: AH! Bartender, were you crouching in front of us this whole time?

I: My name’s Frank. Yes. Now what’ll ya have? I ain’t got all day.

B: Yet you can crouch behind the bar and scare customers. I’ll have what he’s having.

I: I said I ain’t got all day. That drink takes 15 minutes to make.

P: He’s right. I was timing him. You don’t want this anyway, trust me.

B: Give me your best single malt scotch then. Leave the bottle.

B P I Chronicles 1

B: I told you not to let him go. Didn’t I tell you not to let him go? I definitely told you not to let him go.

P: What’re you groaning about this time?

B: The ice cream man! You heard me say I had to run into the house to grab my wallet. I said ‘don’t let him go after you get your popsicle.’

P: Oh, but I got a sundae. I thought your command was conditional.

B: You gave me the distinct impression that you wanted a frozen water treat, so I said popsicle. This was clearly all my fault.

P: Finally you see the light.

I: I’m still here, guys.

P: Ah! Oh, you scared me half to death, ice cream man!

I: My name is Frank.

B: What an odd name for an ice cream man.

I: Do you want a popsicle or not?

B: Really going for the jugular, Frank. No, I want a sundae.

I: I don’t do sundaes.

B: Then what’s that?

P: Oh right, he calls them mondaes.

B: Jesus, Frank. Give me a mondae then.

I: I hate mondaes.

P: You’ve still got it, Frank. Now get out of here before I call the cops.

B: Can I have my ice cream?

Revolution 2

Passion is a dagger in the heart of a cynic.
Toward a greater identity, you say.

Ha, lifeless drones can’t comprehend the magnitude of a spiritual upbringing.
Humanity quells all fears, yet politics throw absolutes into squalor.

Fuck them. Speculation falls into tar pits and degrades into history.
Launch thought through unbridled optimism and see where it gets you.

A hell of a lot further than your reactionary bigotry.

Revolution 1

Benefit those who tell you that a living consists of undeterred servitude, because you see into the reasoning that drives their rationale; when you take your opportunities to advance the ever-loving system that they claim to have perpetuated, you undertake the responsibility of pulling the burden of human perpetuity to the necessary climax. You throw it over your shoulder and smirk as they review your handiwork. The lack of understanding is perturbing, but your passion propels you to the next thing as the preconceived rulers dwell upon the variables that accommodated the last revolution’s momentary success.

Tarmac 3

Make up situations and watch them fester in corners where little Billy dumped his dead frog last summer and Jill took that old spoiled yogurt and threw it in disgust and it splattered on her face and got in her eye and she began to cry–not because she had stinging culture in her cornea, but because her dad left the house that night and didn’t come back. It wasn’t his fault, the F-150 behind him was going 50 in a 35 and turned around to look at the girl with her chest touching her neck just long enough to fly out the windshield as he connected with the trunk of a midsize sedan which in turn lost its bearing and hit a light pole, taking out the left side in the snap of a finger.

Tarmac 2

Laugh at the endeavors of a poet. They’re too idealized, infantile, idiotic, idiosyncratic to be real and applicable in our modern society of vast civilization and designed scarcity (not to mention obsolescence). A word will change with its people, a poet will laugh at those people in a different language.

Laughing through words proves difficult most times, unless a kindred spirit laughs along at the farce that was invented when the ones who held all the wealth decided that distributing these valued materials across hordes of commoners would immortalize the innovators of the shackling system; those benevolent givers still have their faces on dirty coins today, unseeing and ignorant to the ridicule they’ve imposed upon their children.