Binge and PurgeBinge:Gab el. Bachman. Deep. France. Bergman. Evans. Rise. Sage. Franz. Polanski. Cinematic. Bass. Black. Morgana. Wealth. Eve. Mibikids. Rife. Mornling. Cyrano. Deeper. Scribe. Hudson. Buksport. Ship. Mow. Berkshire. Fellini. Fincher. Astronomer. Riley. Chompsky. Court. Love. Route. Bloniasz. Jove. Distance. Fabric. Producto. Emby. Dean. Freed. Professor. Space. Apotheosis. List. Geodesica. Norcross. Ingersol. Chabert. Chaucer. Noon. Zero. Little. Words. Deepest. Self.Purge:Its not as if Maya Angelou was strung up naked from a Mississippi delta born cotton tree. Well, actually it was. You see back when black buskins beat back the bramble of my god given right to speech impediment laden afterthouhts, I would stroll a slow mosey in a grove of old bo trees. Now my socks stretch only so far as my crinkled fingers can pull these chinese odes to western capitalism. Remember the rice patties, and the rice patty hats. "Men in black pajamas," he would say. And then proceed to crack-a-
Primordial Soup of the Day"Primordial Soup of the Day"Im chalant although inquiring mimes want to showThe life and times of Pontifaux.I strike a balance,Or was it balance on strike.Seen enough mourning, just tell me what dawn's like.Equal parts critic-idealistMimic and realistRound off my age just to know what a wheel is.The shyest of shysters"Do you want your pie sliced sir?"A guy but no geyserThe wry of the wiserShaped in dents, my sapienceAnd my Wisdom tooth,Incisor.I binge...and purge...Binge and purge and binge and purge.Cringe and merge the fringe and verge.Atoms with Eve's drop, datum's deseased cropMadam will you please stop...Im half way through a palindromeWith half a talon shownGripping gripes of the most massive of talent tomes.Got tickets in the brain's balconyThrough a small wicket in sane alchemy.The lights dimThe night's whimMy first concertain.As always...in all plays,The beginning is curtains.
My Panache"My Panache"Cyrano,I love herVery Much.She are the most beautiful thing ive seen.On clear winter nights I can see the moon's jealousy reflected in your eyes.My celestial body,The heavens have saved space for our love.Cyrano,I can not live with out her love.We must be togetherForever.I write my being in verse to the cadence of your heartbeat.My mortal melody,Come, let us dance along the sheet music with love letters upon our soles.Cyrano,I am so happy.She is my dream come true.I love her more than anything.You are the exclamation point to end my life sentence.My sweet simile,When the spring rains come, surely the Gods are whispering your name.Cyrano,Thank you so much.You are a great friend.I will never forget this....My panache shall not bear the soil of vanity.I love through letters, the harmonious word is my kiss.My heart at nose lengthIs the only way to keep from seeing my reflection in her eyes.Farewell my love.
Blank Stairs"Blank Stairs"She stairs.Three flights down is her car.Sedan. Four door. Twenty-one thousand miles.In circles.She was an artist once.The smartest dunce.Finger paintings mostly. Never sold a finger print.Now she works five days for fity weeks. Filing. Typing.Her sentence is run-on.Never noticing the tessellating artistry of her cubicle horizon.Her T's are crossed, eyes are glazed over.Her tears are seeded Where the sonnets will grow.But they hold tight to old sights.Pupils too contricted from the monitor glow.She stairs.Three flights up is the roof.Sky. Four clouds. Twenty one mile view.In every direction.
A Tail of Two Prongs"A Tail of Two Prongs"We've talked once or twice.Me and her labia.Or should i say her labia and i."Play me a tune on your fork maestro!"She knows, yes she knows.Two prongs too long to tune wrong.Perfect pitch hero harmonizing her swoon song.She writes poetry and prose.Well, she tries to.Take her paragraph, tear in halfAnd a few lines slide through.Her oceans aren't deepBut At least the sky is bright blue.She is a Professional bitch.And still cant pay the rent.Perhaps she is in the wrong line of work.Yet,She's thoroughly dug.Men with spades, jacks over aces."This may hurt," sifting the pay dirtGrinning through cracks in their faces.I mind a gem that will go lovely with my earings.Hanging off the profiled lobes.Sometimes then vibrate in unison.And thats when i know to listen in.
My Hands Are FullMy Hands are FullIrreconcilable differences.It was love at first fight.I met and married her in a four post tikki bar.Under a 2.99 per minute plastic flamingo sunset.I've thrice divorced that girl from Ipanema.You'd think i would have learned my lesson by now.Perhaps i should write it on my hand.If i can find the space.