Jun 2019
drrry spells
~for the r in all of us~
a normanative condition, a kitchen condiment, an un-relished
I’m-in-a-pickle relish, when there in no hot **** dogged doggedly poem perspiration in the fridge or anywhere to be found; nothing but a top sliced bun, ah, plain buns, old stale dog ones is all ya got left for dinner, during one of them there drrry spells that
no blonde tanned unweathered weatherperson ever
forecast correctly
Normanative? Oh yeah.
the tyranny of the white, white bread, the white, whittle ya down screen, couture-cold water from tap direct, neck bent, jugged to try and fail to wash down that lumpen ball of dog fur brain drain clog that’s backing up the paper words, in a stomach churning brine holding you back from reaching the top of the Mt. Everest,
rite Normanative?
Normanative.Oh yeah. Son of Norma and Normally.
It’s in the bibell, look it up!
she-he is my pooka, (nope, uh-uh, look it up) a six foot tall rabbit,
climbing up my brain stem, strategically strangling my words like
a flea killer collar round my neck, one that actually visually works,
my flea bit words fall to the floor, to live with the dust mites descendants of the ole south, drafts and rejection letters, all whose blessed memory may never die etc. etc.
that was the condition of my normanative condition when I dropped in (yup, look it up),
Norman sarcastically asking, how’s the weather up there,
any rain in that-northern-brain, down here it’s as dry as an southern old dog porch panting in Jewlie, breathiny out summer hottie poems, write out like it’s crazy going out of style, oh yeah, forgot
you don’t speak dawg that well.
so I don’t know nothing about your drry spells, just climb into
the hottest hot tub, staying all the summer months if necessary,
reading old poems about busted hearts, old dogs, unrealized loves that can’t be forgot, promises kept that one never made, other curses,
battlefields of yore, sweatin’ out the toxins till r
sends along a new one, rocking my toenails to my disbelieving eyes,
for I’m a mentally patient person,
whose never seen a drrry spell so long, that was not worth
wading thru, waiting for, till something busted out and
another thunderstorm of a literary good one, errr come along
like I said, I’m a mental patient man, still crazy after all these years...
(yup, that too, you could look it up if ya made this far)
~for the r in all of us~
a normanative condition, a kitchen condiment, an un-relished
I’m-in-a-pickle relish, when there in no hot **** dogged doggedly poem perspiration in the fridge or anywhere to be found; nothing but a top sliced bun, ah, plain buns, old stale dog ones is all ya got left for dinner, during one of them there drrry spells that
no blonde tanned unweathered weatherperson ever
forecast correctly
Normanative? Oh yeah.
the tyranny of the white, white bread, the white, whittle ya down screen, couture-cold water from tap direct, neck bent, jugged to try and fail to wash down that lumpen ball of dog fur brain drain clog that’s backing up the paper words, in a stomach churning brine holding you back from reaching the top of the Mt. Everest,
rite Normanative?
Normanative.Oh yeah. Son of Norma and Normally.
It’s in the bibell, look it up!
she-he is my pooka, (nope, uh-uh, look it up) a six foot tall rabbit,
climbing up my brain stem, strategically strangling my words like
a flea killer collar round my neck, one that actually visually works,
my flea bit words fall to the floor, to live with the dust mites descendants of the ole south, drafts and rejection letters, all whose blessed memory may never die etc. etc.
that was the condition of my normanative condition when I dropped in (yup, look it up),
Norman sarcastically asking, how’s the weather up there,
any rain in that-northern-brain, down here it’s as dry as an southern old dog porch panting in Jewlie, breathiny out summer hottie poems, write out like it’s crazy going out of style, oh yeah, forgot
you don’t speak dawg that well.
so I don’t know nothing about your drry spells, just climb into
the hottest hot tub, staying all the summer months if necessary,
reading old poems about busted hearts, old dogs, unrealized loves that can’t be forgot, promises kept that one never made, other curses,
battlefields of yore, sweatin’ out the toxins till r
sends along a new one, rocking my toenails to my disbelieving eyes,
for I’m a mentally patient person,
whose never seen a drrry spell so long, that was not worth
wading thru, waiting for, till something busted out and
another thunderstorm of a literary good one, errr come along
like I said, I’m a mental patient man, still crazy after all these years...
(yup, that too, you could look it up if ya made this far)
