becoming radlerified by the dozens,
the pulsating schooner and
soon-to-be beer schnitzel founder matrix
has gotten one step closer to inverting
McGillicuddy’s flounder station ingress.
Something like a flower empowerment extravaganza
for the sake of all that is roly-poly
and nothing much more than that unless
you’re really looking for a tangential crime
to pin on the succulent ape tendril, chilled
(in season between September and July).
I poured myself a Laura Palmer and sprang into action,
working harder–certainly–than any chimp I’d ever seen
(though still a paltry output when compared to our founder
and glorious leader, Ubaldo: Eagle Veterinarian to the Stars).
We take with us all matter of things, insomuch as it stands to be ever an incher of pincher cinchers, where schnitzel bricks spend all-day expeditions of exquisite daydream clamfaces–by the cola machine is where our lord takes his things. Bitter nut jobs make extraordinary leaps through our galaxy, but never when you have an economy rooted in capitalism, that dollar ever-chained to something way older than our collective responsibilities and squared up to a door we must have forgotten like a stamp mailed on a letter to the dentist some Tuesday back in December when the weather was much nicer but the days were much shorter and you sure as hell don’t miss that one bit, as goddamn cold as it may be right now, god dammit. I really wish I could use my arms.