Fine Shooting Powder
Moan at her, shoe the oxen,
grip the quaint error of your frozen daze,
and mumble something specific
to Japanese toreadors on furlough
from Norse, nomadic meanderings
near you.
Glimpse a hand of bony squib kicks,
metered by the city, hobbling on
fenced commissary ducts.
Glance at pretty, tight electors,
bent on votive mandolins
and stark, religious preambles.
Kiss the next winner who clicks your heels,
pent down with fierce, triumphal trances
and wavering gnats.
Glue the effortless freak's pleasant dithering
to a universal column of greased, cylindrical concern,
landing him with warts, wattage, and ergonomic glee.
Please monosyllabic longshoremen
with repetitive rhythms, groveling
for just a pinch of fine shooting powder.
The Exigency of Rust
Grossly pillaged of all that isn't recent,
timed down to a yardarm for French fajitas,
glimpsed at large for nary a quadrant's lazing,
spun dry by a hovering hydrofoil,
slipped into a casserole of motor oil and greed;
our known combatants file off
nasal bickerings and hymnal droids
with easy, surreptitious thoughts,
focal in their lucid underpinnings,
smearing out wine for more.
Angst emerges, tongue-tied,
gavels recess till daybreak,
and trained ermines believe
a matriarch's flimsy,
feline meanderings,
hip to the exigency of rust.
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