Parlance

Entombed in the cedar
Mac Rebennack-ness of it all,
I stood still with a Wisconsin
kind of appendage, the wishbone apparent
through those ill-begotten stockings
left behind that one night
when the pistons swayed
against the moon spritzers
with their glittering doom

(so transparent to everybody
save the few middling marmoset dealers
known around the district as
generally pretty good guys
in their own regard, if you insist on
getting down to their brand of parlor parlance
after a bit of tea and perhaps
a scone while we’re at it).

Alls I knows is
my black bean taquito factory
couldn’t have shut down
at a worse possible time for me
and my chicken brethren. Now,

I know what you’re thinking. Can
chickens collectively be considered
brethren, or would that be omitting
the female sex entirely?
For you see, my enlightened peers
in this common quest
for some kind of satisfaction–
if at all possible–
chicken is the lazy layman’s
blanket term, and we can’t be
bandying improper pronouns around
over here, ya dig?

Oh, and I suppose it would also mean
that my clucky compatriots will have to incur
the ultimate sacrifice (their lives)
on the company’s behalf
for the sake of avoiding
cuisine production cessation (if even
for a minute).
I can’t jeopardize our investors’ success
within this capitalistic apparatus–
especially after that botched public offering
a couple summers ago. Egg
on my face, I said to myself (I said).

Scribbles

Tiny little jubilants toss paint chips
into the rat-faced fire as their attempt
to reap the benefits of social currency.
Judging by their naiveté–they’ve only
just entered the space quite recently–
it would seem they’ve missed out on
the initial burst and are plunging into
an inescapable trough of national debt (god
bless them all, those stalling sensationalists
of the written turd). Once the uninformed masses
have been clued into a sensation, it’s only
a matter of time before the bliss splits
lengthwise and shatters the giblets
from within, a process even more frightening
than one would think at the onset.

Myself, I prefer to stick with what I do best:
painting Portuguese on piers that had once
bustled with trade activity, now disconnected
from commerce yet occupying the same space anyhow.
We wasteful invaders–of course we must leave
the bones of our prior successes to rot
in plain sight, unadorned (aside from my scribbles).