fear of fun(ction)
I would like to check out
a great many impossibly
dissimilar dinner engagements
numerous chipped plate
inward table seating arrangement encounters,
meaningful explosive chatter exchanges,
see through people floaty,
some freshly infused cubes
in my three foot tall tumbler.
And who can blame mane?
Watching for something,
we become inflatable.
Cultural recoding exploding
under a light serpentine baby rain shower
before yet another alligator doctor endorsement.
I’m a gullible gull with my hundred speed
fear gears, pumpy peddle power,
down alleyways all too familiar,
strewn with trash that was once cash,
finding new purpose in primitive punctures.
If I see someone else writing
anywhere near my shit,
posting their own goofy goop gump,
I’ll be sure to go over it big time,
with some slappy drywall taffy,
pukey patches of cracked putty.
I’m a stitch fresh duct,
all over that ass,
fat squares of bare, bunk burlap.
Hopefully, so fully,
everything flow fully, go fully,
mind to hand with that gesture texture suggester,
mouth full with ancient pita bread
crystal ball cell signals glowing in mine eyes.
Maybe I can get a real cool pool
thang going. Get fucked up,
pink pigment blowing, turpentine flowing,
on some Kansas sized canvas.
I’m a be that fresh out the can painter man,
steady trying to weasel that easel.