Bruno and Zeus stay howling.
Da blast
skyrockets me towards Pluto
where I crash land.
One blue-tongued plutonian
points at
plenty kanes, all named Lars
in der bebadeez.
Dey ski past.
Shoots, I follow dem.
Seconds pass, I ripped
from da blue tundra
by one nodda wail.
I spock da ambulance
speeding from da North Shore.
I stay talking Italian
to one Russian tita
wit one blue smile.
I drink one beeg Slurpee.
Da siren no’moa.
I ski to da fewcha
wea ereteeng blue.
I jettin wit Willie K.
on top da ocean.
Garrens!
Wat dat mean cuz?
Friday, December 10, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Featured Post
The Dark Path Brightens
It occurs to me That I require an ideal To summit these peaks. Something more than a patch. My tenacity shouts above my perception Shooting ...
-
Fresh pine scent captures holiday spirit. Santa’s little helpers burn clean fuel. Christmas cheer expires on December 26th. Cards and letter...
-
***A prose poem written in pidgin english Da gross cockroach militia stays booming in da plumbing in da face of mass killings in Kaneohe ...
-
What About Hugs? I used to love hugs. It was how I said hello and goodbye in Hawaii. It was an island greeting, a mark of...
No comments:
Post a Comment