Everything in its Right Place.

Now that the floor
has been taken
by some Stinger
to all fours

praying that I might
give their timeshare
of bagged carpets and rugs

a rest~a rest
as the PS_1 Clock
dumbly strikes 2:25,

declaring it’s good now
as ever to make
for The Warm Up~
before the whole wide world

becomes A Talent Show

Just as on and then off stage
an operator by rubber mallet
will deliver a trident of blows,
sending an icey-Chernobyl puck

half past this tired giraffe’s dome,
this tired giraffe’s dome for which
I~ will find himself not departed
but–like that tired-old accordion–

trotted by the Harlem Globetrotters
off the Wimbledon-sharp turf.
And so on my own stretcher–
swiping out like a maxed credit card

for being the only goalie
to (gaufaw, gaufaw)
con as striker x-actoed
(and you’re going to like this)
by toothpick splinter;

Yeah. A toothpick splinter
spit by (yeah) the light-
given force of a (k)night-
stalker, a (k)night-

stalker, who now’s in the business
of repurposing (how unlikely)
this corn-holed giraffe
for a chalk-mascaraed scarecrow

screaming in genuine dis-
alarm for fear the slightest zypher, read gust, might, like a lightning-
kitted kite, have already blown

him over into quite a pickle×~×
and so sealing his harm
in the pitted vat
of this. A mason’s olive jar.

 
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