By Quasimofo Snyder
“i am not who i think i am” thought the protagonist
sitting on a piano stool with no trousers waiting
for trashday when Gabriel might blow the amp
on his Mother of Pearl Fender Strat.
What joyful ode do i lipsinc my 2% regretfulness
nestling wholesome sin skimming true vidal sassoon
repentence?
[he always found it easier to confess his ultra split ends
violence in a mullet salon decked out in art deco].
{And he couldn’t stomach Art Nouveau anymore
since his lactose intolerant Goth girlfriend had left him
for the manager of Toys-R-Us}.
An ode a day will keep the joy at bay, he would trill…
for it’s best kept in season far from trespass, reason,
and treason.
Get both palms inked at Droog’s Tattoo Parlor
–one that reads “I love you?”
–and the other one says “Say ‘hello’ to slappy!”
They’re interchangeable.
But as he got older, he considered buying an inept
yet loyal monkey who would take his B-day spankings
for him. He began to doubt the redoubt of his
homogenized faith.
He would go to furniture stores just to turn the tables.
He would dress up like a spaceman to take his toy raygun
into the Laser Care Center.
The cops couldn’t do anything with him.
Finally one evening while he was frolicking in the forest
with an escaped mental derangee posing as the Greek
demi-god Pan, aliens disguised as butterflies caught him
in their net and he found true belonging as the prize stud
in their collection.
Yes, he lived in a Bio dome habitat refuge flowing with milk,
honey, and spunky roller derby gals located on the planet
Exoticamart. And there these voluptuous beauties grilled
steaks and potatoes for him and carressed his brow till all
of his worries about life and existence washed down
the gutter of his inner abbreviated annotated index
smoldering in the metaphorical midnight second sun.
Sometimes it’s best to forget reference.
Clutching at Straws 