Diluted monkey parachutes
have led to countless altercations–
most of those deaths
could have been prevented.
Nowhere else but in hiding
would one even entertain
such a horrific factory prediction.
The only excuse for economic ignorance
of this magnitude would be
the natural dearth of current fiscal knowledge,
if we honor our aforementioned hiding scenario–
cowardice in the eyes of an American entrepreneur.
It’s the largest of the large men with largess
who typically manufacture the troll psychology
that plagues today’s youths. They have
nowhere to hide anymore.
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: 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?