Directives

are effective!

they point as they exclaim!

and since they lack the normal tact

I love them just the–

–same as meta-4′s,

the digit best to meet…

Very like a simile

with “isness” more–

–completely don’t like clauses.

Those commas cause delay!

conjunctions function

well enough

if you’ve too much to–

–say it like you mean it!

Getcher verb on

in-my-face

‘cause commons nouns

(though unadorned)

keep propers

Upper–

–Case in point→

an allegory,

conceals its agenda,

the fable leading reader

to a moral at the end–

–a homonym’s a word,

that changes what it means.

Move the “e”

and lose the “c”

to render

“scene” a–

–seen it,

read it

here, folks,

that words are thoughts for food,

that’s why it’s best

to double-check,

that which you’ve construed.

The images streaming on TV are better

–they don’t

talk back

–they aren’t

avante garde Nail Art,

they’re barred

from grey real estate

–they can’t

erect unsanctioned billboards

–they won’t

spit in cross winds

and picture in picture is strictly up to me.

It’s a silk-free area…

full of needled sows,

free of virtual pets,

minus personal lies,

missing obligation,

Its airbrushed projections an agreed upon deception–

not individuated

ideologies comprising a global society for which

there is frankly no evidence…

so grand, though!

They need an E like venti latte, grande!

A quest for constant audience

that rings more hollow

than donut holes

as spherical as a

sphincter,

*

and kissably starred like that, too.

Host growing more obsolete by the day,

not up…

Just like the baby that died in China,

while its virtual sibling garnered all the attention.

The one shipped stateside–

stamped with the

tired trademark

. . .

although the death thing, you know,

made a DPI infant preferable in that instance.

If I hadn’ta left the beach early. . .

feelin’ like grit

an’ if I’da bypassed Uptown Gym

for more familiar territory. . .

an’ if I didn’ta go

impulsive-like

to check on that job I know I won’t take

good busywork in lieu of

an’ if I’da been rigid

­like I said I would be. . .

an’ skipped Gelson’s sriracha wings

–an’ guilty!

Gone on to Vons for sundries,

an’ smokes

I’d hate myself for

only to bump into seXe Dave

or was it vice-revers’a?

an’ chat just exactly

long enough to decide against death

an’ feel attractive again

that Dave knows how to do that

then I never woulda

got home when I did. . .

to discover that terrified bunny baby

soaked from days of storm

a sittin’ duck

on our patio built for killin’

a mouse for cat

just waitin’ta get picked off.

An’ that bon-bon size

bun-bun

was too easy to catch

even fer me

after tossed wheat Chex went ignored

an’ reachin’ into the inadequate cover he’d assumed,

I took the shiverin’ bun∙let to Wildlife Care

inna carrier that’ll take the edge off vet trips, now

–assurin’ him alla way

he’d be warm,

an’ he’d be fed,

an’ he’d be safe,

tellin’ him I knew it didn’t feel like it, now

fer me either

but he was gonna make it out alive

stronger

–restored,

an’ all growed up

. . .

an’ still

so close to home.

I kicked the smoking habit

burning nun

in favor of

breathing fire

take a dragon this

and my mouth tastes

très ashy

now, but it’s better than Gaulois

. . .

ditched contacts for

horn-rimmed windows

to frame my face

panoramically

–which would look silly–

(you’d think)

except I gave my

knows

the day off

just a temp job, anyway

planting couch potatoes

the way my garden grows

I strapped

Lazy Boys to my soles,

that way I can relax

~on the go~

For the fourth place winner

there is no fanfare,

no spot on a dais,

nor humble expression required…

Fourth place–in itself–is already humility.

There will be no need

for the fourth place winner to attend

the celebratory dinner,

no need to prepare a speech,

thanking Mom and Dad, and possibly

a surprise figure from his past.

Mom and Dad are secretly embarrassed

–for all that they say otherwise–

since the fourth place winner

should understand

now

(instead of later)

that there is no fourth place.

Not really…

not in actual sporting events,

and not in life,

and this rectangle of

criss-cut satin yellow

is panacea,

is the “no booing” rule

ramped up a notch,

is an eye-patch waiting to happen–

a fourth place loser

that Nobody applauds

–not really–

Nobody is rooting for the winner!

(along with Everybody Else)

who is always

three steps ahead–

she was a story yeller

ONCE!

TWICE!

(and you know)

THRICE!

upon a time

and he,

a hard-to-her

musician

–lyric whisperer

–refrain mumbler

–and mime of melodies on tiny violin

(predating air guitar)

she was soothed by such

&

he inspired

(in the manner of iron lung)

inspired

–dogged attention

to details most missed

(out of hearing frequency)

details

she played back

AT HIGH VOLUME

–guessing at beat

–tempo

–pitch

and reason

(for composition)

she wove staff

&

knit yarns,

CONVERTING hum TO CRESCENDOS

ever after.

who’s to say

life’s better than death

such declarations

are guessing at best

‘cause when we are kicking

we can’t really know

if it’s better above

or 6 feet below

if daisies are pushed

by body and spirit

or soul is long gone

no loves-me-not near it

if worms get their chow

from all that we are

or some part of us

transcends salad bar

if light that we lit

is fried like a wire

or bulb keeps its charge

with breaker that’s higher

if soul is recycled

in new incarnation

til lessons are learned

(a lengthy furcation)

if judgement of life

is given by guy

bearded and glowing

son by his side

if that fella’s biased

by faith or by name

if Jehovah and Yahweh

and Allah’s the same

if we’re simulations

and never leave pod

projections for gamers

a hologram spot

if God’s an electron

a quantum equation

a “hard to pin down”

root of creation

so who’s to say

death’s better than life

the area’s grey

not black & not white.