can we speak off the record?


Merle Haggard’s Leaned-Upon Loves is closed,

as I caught the left leg of my workaday khakis
on the snarl of daybreak, (Dockers slacks
are creativity kryptonite), and the laces on these
Marc Anthony loafers never stay together.
Before ‘Bama bails us out of upside-down homes,
let’s bring Pluto to the good people
and tell them to take turns walking the dog.

Ricky Steamboat had better bleed and run,

for I tax my brother the wind for his
oblivescence & obliquation
of the blades of grass, their
obstreperous obligation to the
moments that pass would make the Kardashians
put their pennies in the wish jar.

Happy Harry Hard-On’s Busted Tiki Doll is retired,

as is your leather briefcase in which you “displayed”
your Star Wars action figures,
Spiffzilla & Gatzuketastic have pumped up the jams,
threatening vernacular Saturday morning spectacular
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel –
I guess I’ll just pretend I’m not in Hell.

Forget platinum; Metallica’s just gone toothpaste.

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