Thursday, January 22, 2015
Surmising Benign Cosmetic Surgery
"Surmising Benign Cosmetic Surgery"
A nice, little nip or aqua-lipo suck here and there--
As long as not chasing the euphoria, which births despair.
Truly, members of my extended family can't manifest facial expression,
Yet my cackle of crazy reserves not any objection;
Moreover, the well-groomed Secretary of State Kerry
Is better off for not being the high-jinks of Vice-Presidential cotton-candy;
Alas, cloned from Lincoln in a secret government lab--I do surmise,
Reflecting the physical image of President Abe--long reach + a no-mustache beard could rise.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Chief Mojo Risin'
"Chief Mojo Risin'"
Don't judge Chief Mojo Risin'
Till you've walked
Two Moons in his moccasins.
*
Awkward Iowa, yet awesome. A singular counter.
President knocked the skin off the ball last night.
Still, $15,000 a year, and less, kinda/sorta grand slam.
Regardless: Imagination & Hard Work offer capable synergy. One without the other amounts to hard knocks.
Moreover, everybody has a story to tell--EVERYBODY.
*
Here is a pic of the Wheaten Terrier & the moccasins (washed monthly) I've worn religiously for the last three years save a few exceptions.
Too: America is still Boss!
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Supergirl and Bush League education
"Supergirl and Bush League education"
Some folk prefer the full bush
Instead of well-manicured ivy allowing a superior action into mundane push;
Moreover, some folk fancy that their shit never stinks--
To think yours doesn't crafts a myriad of phony finks--
We are America--never dictated by singular reason,
Yet alive in the rainbow glow of every different, shimmering season!!!
Thus, what makes any soul better?
Wise humility and gentle acknowledgment of a buxom babe in tight-knit sweater.
Monday, January 19, 2015
OCD with Scarlet Tics
"OCD with Scarlet Tics"
On New Year's Eve, at the descent of the Times Square Ball among the Big Apple,
If the mental imagery is macabre--I use Jack Daniel's to spike my peach tea Snapple,
Having a one year ruination by way of inheriting weird, telepathic saturation;
Next, to possibly blurt out profane utterance, considered freakish, even in a 1st Amendment Nation;
Thus, I strip to slick bikini and let the boys offer a stare,
Knowing: be myself, and chill the hot visions with a coolly remembered icy glare.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Bobby Rook
"Bobby Rook"
Read Huck Finn when sweet sixteen,
Skipping school with smarts from the teachers so mean,
Folks went Southwards from the Union Blue,
Anchoring in Dixie where passion does brew,
Letting me learn in any old way,
Putting hay on the floor during Christmas Day,
Daddy don't mind a mess here and there,
If I beat my drum towards things I care--
Never wanna leave this creek and moon
That double-dates Dixie till the Sun does croon . . .
Bobby Rook
Friday, January 16, 2015
Failed Country Music Song; plus, the Wheaten Terrier
"Failed Country Music Song; plus, the Wheaten Terrier"
Look'n at the cross, hanging on the wall--
Jesus ain't dead but He thrives and all--
Come down here, to Dirty South Grand,
Meet some fellas growing grass on the land--
They ain't bad, got motors in their yard,
Love thy neighbor who tries so hard,
I ain't gone--some Yankee in my heart,
But down in Nashville my beat did start.
*******
Not to dis pulsating poetasterism,
Yet the Wheaten walks me!!! Sometimes into Tennessee, sink-hole chasm;
Alas, if I don't smoothly brush her cotton-candyish hair,
It attracts a mess of leaves, sticks, and wintry, brown grass--she then tracks in our lair;
Thus, to spoil the Wheaten with healthy fish in a kinda/sorta pond,
Offers Canis lupus familiaris a pack-fueled bond.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Nashville Daybreak in the park; plus, a Wheaten Terrier
"Nashville Daybreak in the park; plus, a Wheaten Terrier"
A rise outta fading Moon
Towards relaxation--resonating our blessed boon--
Now: Daystar ignited on wintry Nashville morn
Until Exxon buys the Sun with hyper-capitalistic scorn;
Regardless, somethings are (with noble attempt) magnanimously free,
And after wending the Wheaten alongside the foxy, Little Harpeth River, it like a creek--
I pilot the scrappy V-6 as swift as my gaseous tract,
As if a girl thinking herself scorned does launch an attack,
And the potty-rooms are locked to keep the illegals out,
Though they might have meticulously cleansed it with compulsive clout;
Otherwise, a shimmering pubic hair, curled sooooo grotesque,
Would further freak my inspired and multi-woven complex.
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