adventures pulling up the juncture
could not at all mind the sweet sticky deal
coming as a complete surprise
plunging to the depths processors
able to claim ancient pedigree.
Electricity a participant,
the haywire effect makes perfect sense.
But how could who is partially sane
too terribly mind that smoky stench?
True, few are exactly happy
trees once full of sap in a flash
were changed into monuments of charcoal.
As always eyes gazed blind
at the phenomenon most obvious
which means a repeat ladder clamber
and make the missionary fuzzy, as in,
there was a fuzzy missionary
and this fuzzy missionary’s bosses
decreed he journey to a distant country
fixed as though screwed in a tropical sea;
alas the fuzzy missionary’s bosses
were in the dark about secret weaknesses
which for a fellow were not abnormal,
but for a missionary, even a slick
missionary, this kind of concealment
could hardly honor the reputation
of the boss even bigger than the fuzzy
missionary’s immediate bosses.
Well, hindsight, spilled milk, and all that jazz
indeed amounts to surplus info, much like
the marijuana in Washington.
Once he sunk his senses in coconut meat
and slid his toes in seaweed, it was finished.
admittedly the mission is fuzzy
but in a minimum sense, which really
might come out funny when floating with clouds,
through memory’s haze the theme calls it space.
But go easy on these missionaries
whose travels have given them thirsty lust
for a frosty, thick-headed beer
served by a short-skirted, thigh-friendly thing
whose hair flows like a licorice cascade
and with strawberry lips just rightly ripe;
all topped with a breeze disrupting July.
Now I wanna be a missionary.
Consciousness topics interest
me a lot, to such an extent
that when the heat is high I camp
around so-scented article
counties and townships, however,
keeping sacred virtues apart
as experiential teachings
affirm that wisdom is aware
that going out guarded is good;
besides, writing days have drifted
into an access denial
status, textures losing ridges
even as this line gives a gaze
towards nothing particular
due to a dumbfounded wonder
about why it even exists.
Ah, the smell of a disastrous
poetic edifice meadow!
And where there is a poetry
disaster scent, a scented slit
promising slickness is oft close.
That would be the good news. The bad
news is actually a happy
tide: at last I wrote a mudslide.