As a fine print is matted my hair is matted
and like a gefilte fish I’ve been gutted.
One sweet Sunday I went to the pictures:
stir-fried okra, stillness, scripture.
Have you heard the name unspoken?
Not Jon Hamm, not Kevin Bacon.
Segue please. Can I get sponsored?
Am I a boil and you a lancer?
The basic rules have been restated,
the truth, like parmesan, been grated.
Fresh bananas, cookery flocks,
chicken or hickory-dickory dock.
Stuck in the mudflat the MIDI chimes
and signals the start of some boogaloo games,
no shame is attached. Mahi mahi from Maui
allows me to bow over sorts in the galley.
The cool void exposes a quiet eclipse,
just a kiss away, dead on the cusp.
Gilded, bewildered, filtered through process,
but not clear enough to be swallowed by phosphorus,
coiled in fortuity, famished and prosperous.