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William Clifton Jun 2015
Count-entious . . .
Five-Seven-Five, or
Is it Seven-Five-Seven?
Dyslexic Haiku!

High Coo-Coo . . .
Words like scrambled eggs
Malapropos slip off the tongs
Lysdexics UNTIE!

In Swummary . . .
I never flip turned
I zagged; everyone else zigged
Oh, how I was schooled
Wk kortas Apr 2017
He is in his rooms in the Kenmore Hotel,
Once-gracious lady favored by the ancient city’s elite,
Now tired old harlot patching and spackling with powders and rouges
In a vain attempt to camouflage the slide toward oblivion,
Only fit for unwitting out-of-towners
And those with short-term business transactions to ply
(He stays there out of nostalgia, perhaps,
Or possibly because they’d let him through the door without question
Back when that was far from a given,
Or maybe because it was the trumpet players’ place,
The story being that Bunny Berigan had once left a horn
As payment for an outlandish and fabulously overdue bar tab.)
He is holding court with a local features writer,
Another interview in another town,
(Ostensibly a one-on-one sit-down,
But his suite more like Sears the weekend before Christmas:
Band members doing walk-through warm-ups,
Friends old and new darting in and out,
Lucille frantically mother-henning the whole process)
Juggling many hats as he speaks,
Part-time salesman for semi-herbal quasi-diet aids,
Mirthful mangler of malapropos,
All rolling forth with with an air of street-level entrepreneurship,
But there is a more stolid, settled quality about him now,
The assumption of the mantle of icon
(Bestowed upon him by a continent
Far from his birth, but still)
And the time comes for him to begin the warm-up,
Starting with a high note here, a low note there,
Until he finds one note, that note,
A thing not constrained by lead sheets, acoustics,
Indeed any human construct at all.
On the street outside, two young men,
All stingy brimmed hats, narrow ties,
And not-quite top-line silk mohair suits
(Flipped in and out of the pawn shop
Any number of times, but still)
Shoes shined to a military gleam,
Walking with a gait which implies
That they are hustlers, yes,
But men of substance, nonetheless.
One of them hears the note,
And wonders aloud,
Man, who’s got a horn like that
Around this neighborhood?

(Neither of them deign to look up toward the hotel,
As, for them, threat and opportunity
Is something that exists strictly at street-level)
But his partner grunts dismissively,
Never even breaking stride,
Man, just some old **** fool
Playin’ some old tom’s records
.
William Clifton Nov 2017
It’s just sew embossing to put this imprint, butter goes.

Sum tines it feels like my thoughts are just a slurries of malapropos. One right have to another.

I never know what’s coming hexed out of my mouth.
Do you heal me? I’m just slay’en.

Bereave me, it’s twines like these I can’t strand to be a wound myself either.

To parallel Virginia Wool, I need a loom of one zone
To un-tango my thoughts and find dancers to these questions.

Cod-Lamb-It-All-To-Health!
Cheese-IS-RICE!
Will this Rever-end?!
oh puissant orchid
her kiss pursue
tell of a harlot
with malapropos foreseen
that itinerate she reckons
her untoward Soviet
from a storied depot now
a' la bleeding cape
and their diaphragm regime
but she's flagrant in Fremont
only so that he died as much again
with her earth scorched bear
whether desert storm's hand here
her beads oft rise a heroine.
a Solviet in New York
nadine shane Nov 2017
you only said you loved me
when you were lonely;

you were scared of
feeling even a tinge of loneliness circulating inside your body
so you impulsively go out
during late nights
to search for love
in befuddled men.

you only said you hated me
when you were inebriated;

you were scared of
feeling even an ounce of happiness
surging through your veins
so you look at yourself
in front of the shattered mirror,
who pitied you
for ululating constantly.

your flagrant atrophy
shouts your
malapropos name
across the hearts
worn on every sleeve.
you always wore a facade of mirth and dysphoria.
Bob B Nov 2021
I ran into Tom Turkey today;
It's been a couple of years.
We sat in a local bar together
And drank a couple of beers.

"Tom," I said, "I know quite well
That life has its bumps,
But often when I run into you,
You're feeling down in the dumps.

"Last Thanksgiving had to be
A difficult one for you,
But what is happening this year
That's making you feel so blue?"

"Well," he replied, "you know the day
Is always bittersweet:
It's nice to see people celebrate
But sad to be the meat.

"COVID put a real damper
On last year's merrymaking.
I thought things would improve by now,
But my heart's still breaking.

"Hospitals are under siege.
Cases again are spiking.
In ONE state° 68 percent!
That's not to my liking.

"Unnecessarily,
Many people are dying.
And some people who downplay the virus
Resort to unscrupulous lying.

"It makes no sense whatsoever
When we have the means
To put an end to this horrible scourge
Through safe and effective vaccines.

"Almost as many people are losing
Their lives to COVID today
As LAST year before the COVID
Vaccine came into play.

"Certain counties where vaccination
Rates are super low
Want to send patients to other counties.
To me that's malapropos."

"Tom, I feel your pain," I said.
"I'm amazed as well.
Conspiracy theories and misinformation
Sometimes are hard to dispel.

"Let's hope that more unvaccinated
People will see the light
And work to get this virus under
Control by doing what's right."

"AMEN!" he said, and waddled
Out to catch his cab,
While giving me a cursory wave
And leaving me with the tab.

-by Bob B (11-24-21)

°In Michigan
Joyd Bañares Oct 2021
When the outskirts met the metropolis
I wore my favorite old ruffled dress,
As I walk the path through the woods, down the small stream.
Heading to the field of my favorite flowers and our favorite place.
As the warm breeze of Sunday afternoon bliss sways my hair,
Sending pomegranate scent through the air.
I lay on the bed of daisies and soft lavenders.
And stare at the blue ocean sky slowly closing my eyes for a while.
Reminiscing the little memories I have with you.
Imagining you are still here beside me.

How your brown eyes glistened as the corners of your mouth
rose for a warm smile.
The way your hard raw denims creates a malapropos effect on
this place, but complements my soft flowy dresses.
How you sing to me your favorite songs, strumming through your brown guitar sticker-ed with a symbol of a place where you once belonged.
I haven't told you how melodic your voice was.
How I wish, I could hear that again.
And how I wish, I could see you again.

I hope you are enjoying the city, my love.
You've been to different places and I know your heart
will always longs for the metropolis.
But if you will ever miss the woods and fields, I'm still here,
waiting for you on the outskirts where we first met.
It’s been a year since I wrote this for someone I haven’t met once again. He actually inspired me to continue my writings last year. I hope he’s fine from where he is right now.
A generally cerebral acquisition
intertwining heterosexual generic guy,
who first started dating gals,
when a late teen/
early twenty something,
who overcame his shyness
courtesy consuming powder milk biscuits;
usually described as
"made from whole wheat
raised in the rich bottomlands
of the Lake Wobegon river valley
by Norwegian bachelor farmers;
so you know
they're not only good for you,
but pure... mostly.

Buy them ready-made
in the big blue box
with the picture of the biscuit
on the cover,
or in the brown bag
with the dark stains
that indicate freshness.

Whole wheat that gives
shy persons the strength
to get up and do
what needs to be done,
especially a then
first time contra dancer
such as yours truly – me!

Heavens, they're tasty, and expeditious!"

I buzzfeed jump/kickstarted to drone
how as humble male,
a propensity prevailed to secrete testosterone,
yet lament childhood's end,
an unhealthily docile boyhood
never realizing inclusion
nor fraternizing with classmates,
a stark realization throughout mein kampf.

Hence an (often feeble attempt)
to recaptcha forsaken interpersonal opportunities
when positive circumstances
appear palpable courtesy
interest exhibited toward yours truly,
or more particularly
his satisfactorily scribbled writings.

Overindulgence exuding profuse gratitude
most likely counterproductive
to teasing fledgling friendship
ofttimes recklessly voicing
expressing premature ejaculations
of amorousness linkedin
to profusion of unbounded love
invariably lobbing blitzkrieg
of desperation to undermine latent
intrigue housing initial sentiments

never vouchsafed tactile rapport
with author of these words,
whose impetuousness additionally pronounced
by inclusion of mine
America Online username
available after further correspondence
to sincere respondent
in immature hoop dreams to elicit
fantasy realization to strike up rapport.

At such hint of romance and elusive
fine prairie home companion to acquire,
I want to burst into song
with attendant accompanying acapella choir
oblivious reader would become jaundiced
regardless creative rhyme and reason,
where Rita meter maid,
actually a robot contrived thanks
be to artificial intelligence
within blink of her
sophisticated electronic eye
notices digital timer

precious minutes to display
favorable compression, depression,
disadvantageous expression,
irreversible impression,
malapropos progression,
et cetera didst expire,
who ofttimes referenced prior
experienced being flummoxed,
when few and far between
interpersonal scenarios embarrassingly
forfeited, kindled explosive charge
as if sparking electricity
issued from a shorted wire.

Amour propre frankly zapped
analogous to how swollen balloon
punctured or loosed from fingerhut
erratically zips thru air
flitting to and fro hither and yon
resembling how
on two separate occasions
witnessed bat out of hell or cowbird
similarly swooped dipped and dove
within our house got trapped,

(possibly fell thru fireplace flue),
whereby mother dearest shrieked
simultaneously swatting
(the only mammal
in the world that can fly)
nsync with rebel yell
(on par with exemplary performers as:
Swallowtail, the Flying Garbanzos,  
Wild Asparagus.

Within that milieu
of barnstorming hoopla,
I got me a wife
(currently taking her siesta),
though upon first setting foot
yours truly stumbled as with two left feet,
but mastered the following called steps
and routine became cakewalk.  

HOW TO CONTRA DANCE:

     Ask a partner (yea, that lonely looking gal or guy), who can never refuse to kick up heals in this rollicking shenanigan – the rumor holds that said activity the most fun one can have with his/her clothes worn.

     The caller will usually do a walk thru, which begins with the first two couples closest to the stage crew of lively musicians (frequently filling the makeshift hall with music aligned the genre of irish jigs and reels) beginning to pair off.

      After couples one and two (nearest the band) complete their quartet, this process (sans participants coupling off) continues until the foot of the line.

     Actually each duo of dancers within the foursome nearest or furthest from the podium dons the role of  “first and second” couple respectively.

     The walk thru can be helpful, especially for those unfamiliar with this social activity, which encroaches on the ordinary comfort zones because eye contact plus physical hand to hand fusion necessary.

     Many of the routines utilize various combinations of approximately a couple dozen unique moves, where each distinct extemporaneously choreographed fancy footwork utilizes a unique variation of such movements.

— The End —