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As the title suggest these are nitpick quicks of past pouts where I lout it loud if not quite maturely.

SHELF LIFE-PROSE POEM

Liquored up and quiet as a lawyered up Saturday night suspect… When some Sunday morning radio reformer is giving witness to the ways of the Devil..including/ the product placement possibilities of a public renunciation of my sins

…Damn—

Who is the patron saint of marketing, I mutter, then made instantly sober with white lighting realization that my particular and growing demographic has a never-dying interest in the shelf life of simony.

Working Both Sides Of The Street

What conjures more Hit-Whore than a Poet? The back-door semaphore of an Amateur Political Tout. Some Beltway bystander ready with last week’s drive-by in full auto-Pontus-pilot pout… with clean hands pickin’ the low-lying hoot and Hee-Haw of how Happy Days would be here again…and we’d all be fast friends…were it not for the poor, rich, young, Jew, Pope, pagan, or bacon cheeseburger.

and those old & anachronistic … salt sugar cigarettes and same sex holy soda water drowning the free market and the flea market of small ideas with a big gulp of Gitmo guilt while too big to sail to safe harbor or Tora Bora and did W stand for wilderness or what the fuck are you blaming all this shit on my guy, says our tribe, and your tribe chants back while “we” bury another Spec 4, High School Sophomore, and a six year old from Sandy Hook, as Westboro Baptist gear up.

Concurrent Majority

It’s all going so John C. Calhoun. A retrograde swoon. And always a moon of the moment to hang a history. A high tide of whichever side sees it simply as sink or swim, and still wet behind the ears, they reenact, to payback… Sherman’s march to the sea.

Feel Free…

to think that argument fresh, fixed, and hitched to a wagon divine.

It’s no never-mind. It’s been done. It’s disciples dust and they hold no proxy on the present.
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Prose Poem Pawns Me

We’ve been Inter-coursing around, with why some want to “Lord It Over”, Since Adam’s Rib decided to Pearly White that Golden Delicious.

And Once Treed, We Fear Higher Ground.

Laid low, we whisper up, a local language, riffing in neighborhood punctuation, with the accent on block by block conceits. Making myth, of the original mischief, we make material the first spit shined shibboleth- quick to lose its luster to the tongue wag, the tongue lash, the talk back, to talking down-but never listening- until the blood flows and it all goes… Feudal.

And once again we have to resort to the necessary rewind.

Or, as I have taken to call it—“That Forbidden Fruit Loop.”
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