Hootenanny Lube Job
Automatic
lug nut tighteners
compress
air between a shouting man
and
numbered string cheese sandwiches
of
taco management generalities,
flopping
bubbled consonants
on
incandescent portable hosiery whales,
calming
hornbills with half a silvered
sky
platoon of marinated gunwale crews.
Instantiations
of mollycoddled cockatoos
slam
thick hydraulic doors
in
testing pattern blowgun nonchalance,
whirring
past livid zebras at triplicated speech
of
slouching pneumatic situational caress belief,
twiddling
pewter pralines into
woven
card shark shackles.
“Quad
happened to hubcap
hovercraft
hootenanny hours,
wad
disappeared quietly hand
oh
so utterly from my ignorance
of
solid die-cast hailstorms
in
aerial radiation cacophony offal?”
That
war the solely mumbled question
outa
airy heir to the Styrofoam fortune canteen’s
switchyard
border-calling guardian,
who
calmly dried his clammy
status-seeking
latchkey lackeys,
whisking
cube bullion into Fiord Notch, Canned Tucas,
pretty
closet cloned to steeping inner Americon.
No comments:
Post a Comment