Spam Folder

This experimental piece was collected and published with other pieces written by fellow members of the Los Angeles Poets and Writers Collective. The journal - entitled I'll Have Wednesdays, Vol. IV - will be available on Amazon shortly. 

SPAM FOLDER

Blends of the days turn inside out
Like a leaf masking a man’s ego from his wolf.

Forget childhood rhymes torn from board book pages
Brought forth without wonder yet with some skill.

Engage the black egg resting in the lower belly.
Engage the tender shoots sprouting somehow in winter,
Forget-me-nots for a warmth gone
By time’s great mass execution
The clock thee, the clock thee, hath begun
To bellow its forgone conclusion.

Traces of a numb finger are
What rang the war gong in 1991
And forever we are changed.

A braise is in an attempt to ridicule.
He is a warlord and he smiles like a baby
And will take your babies away and will wonder
At your fear of him though he has a smile
On the nape of his neck that can’t help but look wicked.
To you.

To you, true power comes to pillage
Not people but culture—the most moneyed of cultures.

Fresh off the boat and rapping about a tender crocus
Sprouting in cement cracks that weren’t there a moment ago
And yet now cast long shadows in the dusk,
And will start tomorrow at the crack of dawn
To eat munch by munch the curb
And the doorknobs and mailboxes,
Anything that sounds like a bell
To its retarded sense of smell.

Outsmart it yes.
Outsmart it by telling it what to say.

My ring finger aches sometimes and no
It’s not the one without the redding wing.

Keeling over is a game you win by forcing the other’s hand.

A batch of lentil stew made my heart palpitate.

Shrinking down into a flake of salt
Would result in the heart loading your toast
With vitamin K which is a crucial palliative
On your way to little death.

There’s a fire in the throat of a warbler
When the clouds go nimbus
And the light’s just—so you know—never
Going to flip the script on the California sunset,
Which is just a magazine’s way of saying advertorial in the masthead.

Shake a finger at me, boyo, and I will bring my dog named Bear to the party
And I’ll find your finger first
And wrap a piece of applewood-smoked bacon around it
And then you’ll see what the Grand Canyon looks like in winter.

Disclaimer:
I’m loosely affiliated with a fringe banner ad company
That will fleece your checking account
And turn off the ads that pop up on Facebook.
It’s a genius business model,
And the founder figured it out by hopping one-legged
Into a ceremony led by a fortuitous monkey,
Forgiving everyone of their sins by saying nothing more than “kale and radish”
Over and over again in a high-pitched cockney brogue.

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