isn’t as redundant as
sloppy seconds. unless,
of course, you’re as foul-
mouthed as she is (i am).
gather ’round children, a
tale is to be told. it’s quite
taller than me, but way
shorter than earth’s
last gasp (egad!). mealy-
mouthed mop-heads be
happy, for sadness is
irredeemable. why?
’cuz liquid’s in demand (
take my scorched earth,
please!), unlike liquidity.
we take up too much
space within a thinning
atmosphere (upon this
spinning sphere) wherein
we’re soon to be vaporized;
wherein there ain’t no vapor.
“crepes or pancakes?” ask
the upper crust all crusty-
like. “cakes or pies,”
says i, my eyes so wildly
on the prize (the game
show door slides open,
johnny olson trumpets,
“a box of full of brand
new mildew!” a box
of brand new. bran
flakes were breakfast
once. now we get
our mildew shake,
return to the set
like strutting
turkeys, stutter
our dialog, all
monologue,
engagement
no longer
a human
bean to
bean
thing
but
some
thing
jean-luc
picard once
wittily sung
to engineering.
and the stars
shook in the
wake of the
starship. amen.
