Jemblatrons squeeze through the tetrahedra
as though mall cops have some kind of a stake
in all of this.
It’s not uncommon
to see such a prairie-headed analogy
encompassing the flight of the larcenous
concord penguin, be the bird yella or gold,
kite-running or otherwise.
Whether or not we align ourselves
to this illustrious ancient practice
has little to do with our blood sugar content,
though many shallow-ended participants
profess prediabetic plight.
Slammin’ the fit-o-deena–ground lengthwise across a bawdy expanse of thneeds
(which everybody needs)–we took our serenades elsewhere, confident in our knowledge of the occult (i.e. the back-stabbery and latent overall treachery that sorts itself out over the course of dozens of generations) and its ability to stall disbelief as one would when faced with a Mel Brooks-esque (or, to a lesser extent, Mel Blanc-ish) dilemma involving the safety of an entire town, where the hapless protagonist even agonizes over the insignificant-yet-unique blood splotch patterns on each and every last hitching post (with the hopes of creating a permanent photographical installment at the Getty and cementing his status as one of the pioneers of pre-modernized main street massacre legacy documentation that would span the seldom-understood and often-demonized “Wild West” (that is, if he has anything to say about it)).
All things considered, today is an ornery gentleman on the verge of a total pulmonary infarction.
So, since we’re all in the same boat, might as well bring our unique benders to the stage and rivet that audience through their tenure in those uncomfortable seats while they’re shifting around, groaning and fumbling with hard candy wrappers.
Exquisite, is it not? That gallant patriarch wrangler has struck again, and he skipped away with six of our proprietary cultures! That devious bastard, I hope they fry him.
Anyway, as I’ve been known to say: the illusion of sterility is wasted on the fertile.
I really wish I could use my arms.
Old Thomas Circuitberry had quite the affinity with our carriage lady and wouldn’t stop to pose for minor photography—no matter the monetary reward. The two of them made a habit of heading to the Metropolitan and drinking kool-aid all the way there, unbeknownst to their poor stomachs until it was too late—every single time.
All hell broke loose on a fairly regular basis—on at least 16 separate occasions. I kid you not; those two were so enamored with one another that a romantic tradition greatly overpowered sugar shock (and even the occasional split stomach).
We would observe this behavior and fail to ever remark upon it, satisfied to assume that their brand of love was unique, not to be tampered with for fear of unleashing the stores of karma they’d built up with every passing road trip.
This story is peculiar from a bystander’s point of view, as you undoubtedly noticed, o benevolent keepers of human specimens. Give me a margarita and leave me alone, would ya?
Made to nobody’s specifications: one pair of britches
sewn by the CFO of a Fortune 500 company
while journeying through the Kalahari via camel
and drinking nothing but orzo for an entire weekend.
There is no price set for this garment,
The maker creates pieces during celebratory times
and gauges interest for them at animal charity galas.
Nobody at the Save the Moose Fund
could fit into these particular trousers, but
The Nerds for Birds Guild will have 435 guests
at their next function, and so many of them
have the skinny sandpiper legs this officer had in mind
during that trek under the maddening desert sun.
WHARVED 