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Proctor Ehrling Sep 2019
I sprung at the pinnacle
Unwriting my chronicle
With love non-reciprocal
I shall start anew
I laid bare in muddle hub
With beasts of animal club
I'm stuck at the stub
And solitude brew
And so I continue to clear my notebooks of stuff that seems more-or-less cohesive enough to share here.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
He’s a social chameleon.
He is whoever you want
Whenever you want it
And he’s glad to flaunt it.
He serves me Doctor Pepper
In a crystal champagne flute
And whistles heavy metal
In a double-knit pantsuit
Since he dresses from yard sales
In cheap period clothes
Everybody seems to know him
Wherever he goes.

But, they don’t know his name
Only his audacious style
That either runs people off
Or makes them smile.
He only cares for opinions
That make him happy inside
And assumes any criticism
Is because somebody lied.
He dances like a club kid
But is well into middle age.
He knows all the song lyrics
That are the current rage.

He makes his money painting
HIs canvases of chaos
Covered with a thousand splashes
Of house paint in gloss.
He says they are like music
Each color has a separate tone
And if you can’t enjoy his art
Then leave him the hell alone.
He’s skinny, but delicate
With the bone structure of gods
You’ll not have seen his type before
I will lay you bookable odds.

His one solid weakness
And everybody knows
Is that he sings all the time
And everywhere he goes.
That would be quite lovely
But he can’t carry a tune.
So he looks like an old photo
And makes noises like a loon.
I really knew this guy, but he was not African American. He was pale pasty Caucasian. But, this guy looks so much like him and the way he dressed, I had to use this photo.

— The End —