I. The Shape of Things That Came
Round midnight, square noon;
triangulated five, polygonadal 8:27 a.m.
Don’t like this one? There’s a new one born every minute,
sucker.
Might you be the all-day type? O
Sugar sugar. A pride of Archies,
A Ray of Robinson. Here’s to you, Mrs:
“Plastics.”
In the future, your 21st Century schizoid pad may need
Dustin(g).
May I interest you in a
Shamwow ™?
No? Then a Realwow? (patent pending) How now
Ben Pao?
Chopsticks are for chumps, and pianists manqué.
Peonies grow, where my Rosemary goes,
and nobody knows what the deal is with her baby.
II. Tom I Am
It’s not unusual to be
pelted with flying panties.
O Marcia, Marcia, Martial arts, a dim sum
(side of grasshopper).
Everybody was Hi Karate aftershave fighting (“Hunh!”);
Yet Billy was pleaded, “Don’t be a hero” (that’s a sandwich)—
The Earl of which and the Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl
entered into bitter copyright litigation.
The Early Bird got
Valdezed (XXed on, not Juan’ed)—then came the Dawn,
degreasing tarred feathers: Morning Becomes Hygienic.
Meanwhile, all-vegetable Pam, America’s favorite
quadriplegic—
No Flash in the Pan she; no Sniff and the Tears—
sticks to her knitting.
I saw the nudes today, oh boy:
Mrs. Butterworth caught slutting around with a Fluffernutter.
Uncle Ben’s solid mien melted: “She’s off her nut. That’s a crocker! Oh Black Betty, scrambled ham, Oh Black Betty, Ben I am…”
(Rejoined the redoubtable Mrs. Crocker, I would not, could not—here, there, anywhere.)
III. Memento Morsel
Note to self: Self, note that I,
carrion—
my wayward sun tans my hide, takes and shakes and bakes it (“and I helped!”),
Ass to ashes:
One (1) minced-meat pie, desiccated delicacy, des(s)erted, somethinglicious;
One (1) soul on ice, ice baby—vanilla wayfarer:
locked in the freezer, frigid to a Kelvin degree,
keeping it real down at the Stone Cold Creamery.
But who’s counting? Neither Crows nor Chocolas
are quantifiable. Let X = itself,
Y let self X itself out, from outside in?
Enuff Z’nuff.
I think we’re finished here.
Freddy Flow 