The Warner Bros. escutcheon’s the brazen face of a gold Bugs Bunny.
Microsoft flies the two-faced flag of comi-tragedy.
Pluto’s unhooked from the schoolroom mobile. Demobbed to the dog house.
My avatar’s fallen from the ledge—like startling awake!
A lab recreation of burnt sugar, my elevator perfume.
He rode the rectangular prism all night, just to breathe me in.
One cricket’s always the lead singer, the breakout Buddy Holly.
Bootless. I’ve sent myself to the fields to unlearn your poetry.
“Penelope Unravelling Her Work By Night” is my newest mantra.
We are all in the glitter but some of us recall the falling stars.
O, reason not the need, tiresome headset-wearing tyro.
This chilled patio my Parnassus. This lime-juice vodka my prison.
Spring petal skirt-chasers caught the magnolia blushing.
Who’ll bite? Your studded muscle-car tongue baits the gated community.
Baby acorn, what’s this? You threw your hat in the ring too soon.
Every rubber duck’s a miniature yellow submarine.
A cat’s ears are its eyebrows. Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment.
The road wears a long, unwinding ruff of Queen Anne’s Lace.
Strike that matchless beauty from your mind *as if that’s possible *.
To you, I was merely a paring of the Empress’s fingernails.
Necrophiliac ventriloquism! Your practitioners are legion.
And now my thoughts are trembling like a toddler’s lower lip.
Boots on the ground, dog in the fight, skin in the game.
To you, it’s a bed of roses. To me, a crown of thorns.
The stars blaze on in re-run. We must stop clouding around.
I sing these songs all through the dark, after everyone’s left.
When it comes to the heart, “benign neglect” can resemble criminal negligence.
You cannot fling yourself into the same lake twice.