Art Appreciation
Mesquite redacts a cold sore, linguists forfeit the debate—
who voweled it better: Bananarama or Mississippi?
How stormproof, the window that hitchhikes
with hail. How sawdust, a nuptial horoscope.
Line editing with my reader-for-life, we struckthrough
a bag of barbecue chips, kettle-cooked our enjambment.
When delivery systems became nailbed and toothache,
our days as duo wrestlers Righteous and Sebaceous skidded
to a stylus title belt. Marinate a narrative, you’re hickorified lit
—some penmanship above room temp—but baste a bildungsroman
and critics shiv an ibid. Upticks in cleanser commercials employ
Pointillists depicting bacteria on post-gizzard countertops. Poultry
never gets a good rap. My worst conformity committed with side sizzle.
New book cover-feel as solipsistic as herb, charcoal, spice-bracelet.
Bracken brighten, this could’ve been listeria bankrolling Seurat’s toque.
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Stink Eye Magazine 