methodology

no, I cannot answer your questions of “how are you?”,
not at this time. I am busy learning How to Die in Oregon,
How to Be a Smart Consumer in New Jersey,
How to Throw Away the Bad Apples and

keep the porch rockers a-creaking in the crossmaze
of ocular incrimination and thoughtful fly-swatting

all before “American Idol” begins. I am a crusty yak, and I must
scritch, screech, snort, bang-bang-bang, Billy, make ‘em dance.
this lesson is sponsored by Jarmusch & Young,
practitioners of epigram as confessed:

the growl of the ill-fondled scripture is more vociferous
from the storyteller’s end of the Winchester.

composed by chambers of reticence, palms scorched
by agonized horizon, this icicle of man aligns his zeroes
and his misdemeanors, stacked like hair salon Redbooks

that insinuate tones of Diet Rite acid rock, the onomatopoeia
of in-a-gadda-da-vida, and Ursa Major’s celestial Valhalla, oh,

and if you are being summoned by a plank that needs walking,
ignore that squawking. the parrot is jewelry that hangs around
your neck – in like a wrecking ball, out like a bawling wreck.