Monday, May 23, 2011

sprinklers in a fireworks factory

Possible look-a-likes dominoing, a bit lootful and glutted, gunked, and made better by artichokes, not heartless yet; and this just in: you’ve been noticed, not caught. There is no reason to get behind a caprice. File away all the nails under “Clipped” or just couple a one. It’s stringy. Indulge the worse third of better’s accompaniment. Booing in the foreground. Died at the wrong time; incidentally born too soon to be late. Enter to lose. So, we are here rivaled only by stamped coupons for beets, but in the hoopla of once-baked beans we had to kvetch when the cats upped the ante by subtracting tomato paste from the recipe. Not by a lawn’s mow. Niched in the thin of it. Soldering the defects of dancing without a date. Basement’s empty and boarded down; bottoms from the top. Played to all your directions at twice before once had a chance to even twist or shout. Tackling misses and moralizing silent prayers while the wind slips funny through handshakes and left-handed undoings. Drawling it out, verified and downstanding-- if we play it low enough. Placed halfway closer to halfway there, always. Fight it out or get over it, sunny and rainy, wished and washed away, and the path to push dim ideas to the left of low was cooked and bought out with deviations from the most common denominations available. Impressions were made in tin. The rain-wet street shining with sun after the rain’s gone, that’s what’s left, at least a little better than all this other good. Spitting spiders to all the winged insects, cutting carpet and sparing the same, could’ve had nothing but instead traded it all in for a few more. Keeping track of the years with days without dates. Bored with behaving, gobbled up by waiting, shyer than moonbeams, glassed-in for dangerous lending. Vend a heart; steal a tear. Dry out a whistle or four. Get found. Looking, there, see? Deterrents to aging less than gracefully mismanage time just as well as referrals to outer-space sources. A woman-made man seeks more women. Escape from what it was you had before you knew you’d be able to get away with it, with the reliability of the moon’s wobble to cheer you on. Burbly voiced and wedge shaped, the most remembered bits of a first meeting. We had Tater-Tot pies for breakfast, and the good-for-something gussied down the more-than-likely in an attempt at bravery-- it failed wonderfully. Such an undulant bore it all was, the casking of liquid garlic, gooped, headweak and, with more than a salmon’s chance of being loxed, complicated and sloppy. Secondary sources primarily taking a comeback for granted. Less sour than a sweetly lost thing mountebanked to chafe felled weathervanes. Hasped and cuddling as some postmodernday Bellerophon might, if the mighty were only filled with daylight and fluorocarbon inhalants. Something joined at the hip with bummed freight fraught with a liver’s instinct. Steering a slow eye beyond the used-car stink of loss, there, somehow oblivious, led for a drum tap, steadied with home at short last. Not a round flatter than this one. Clearer here, to-go only, when the Sundays sell themselves for rent, and we get hurried-- chopped past understanding-- into the shards that nobody’ll ever see whole. Topps or Fleer or even Donruss, it don’t matter much anymore. Let’s move on past the bleacher seats, past the headlight glare of it all, and get a place out on Bourbon Avenue with a rope swing tied to a sycamore and a still out back to keep the neighbors happy. From bad to mean to flown away. Suitcased to a few attachments, bagged yet not yet ready to leave. Imagine a sneeze that’d rid the past of our dusty selves. That’s no way to go, like that, without, not choking, a breath. Beetled into a stated submission. Forced to err. The chanceless dance in a cuckoo’s tomb. Nowhere there’s life without dying. Evered to the swift golly before god’s gosh, then, of course not, whittling up a trophy in baleen. Seaside next to unlocked lands, strutting in dry mud nudefoot; it is gummed to leaky faucet drops, junked to flats, closed beginnings, and pies skying the rest. Heaved atlases misdirecting the hounds of winter, and then time carnivals out or back in, never a wilder tent’s wrinkling or a graver hole filled with love’s marl there was. Best to be side-mirroring to attenuate suffered looks. Gusts through the hemi keep cross blood from a flow. Let’s lure aroma back around the kitchen’s sound. A fix for the had-it-alls, maybe compliments too for a patch-- though hardly holding-- of vultured takes on being sane, will keep bad sides of the bored at bay. Miracles change the same tires under and under what never was. In the cold, out of ways, plunked to show, for the crushed aluminum of a beat-up song, could we stand each other for one last dance?