Hierophany

A garbage can related to a steam engine trembles,
or a buzzard of a dolphin writes a love letter
to a dust bunny about a buzzard.
A blithe spirit hovering above the parking lot
starts reminiscing about lost glory, lost glory!—
but a demon for an almost burly food stamp lazily cooks
cheese grits for a paycheck toward a minivan.
The buzzard panics, and a razor blade of the tabloid
earns frequent-flier miles.
Still the hole puncher of the paycheck
teaches a college-educated traffic light how not to blink.
Downtown, downtown.  The psychotic judge slyly borrows money
from the hot-tempered food stamp,
because the cocker spaniel pours
freezing cold water on the wedding dress.  Ruined.
From the bench he yells at the plaintiff,
“Any bowling ball can figure out a financial spider,
but it takes a real razor blade to seek a mating ritual!”  Seriously.
Now and then, the judge adjusts his tripod, borrows more money,
this time from a minivan defined by a bitter bottle of beer.
Soothed by interested, unrated interest rates,
no longer does the fruit cake meditate, nor the pork chop panic;
but a line dancer from the crank case
finds subtle faults with the ocean, throwing her shoes into it.
If a girl scout graduates from the pickup truck,
then some mysterious cargo bay gets stinking drunk.  On gin.
A recliner prays, and the blithe spirit related to some tabloid reporter
bestows great honor upon another senatorial chess board.  Remember.
When you see the revered fighter pilot,
it means that the cashier now flies into a rage;
that the earring buries our moronic deficit;
that a roller coaster of a cowboy shares a shower with a mastodon.
And there is no room for the judge.

This entry posted by J Rand : 07:41