Category: MikeCrowl

SLING,
MAYBE, the
CHILD over one shoulder, the
BANJO over the other.

LIPID ain’t limpid, like your limpid eyes, my dear.
TULIP ain’t two lips, though you have two, it’s clear.
MUCUS ain’t music, though your words are music to my ears. But.
SPADEs is trumps, so it’s clear, hear this in your ears, I win again, my dear.

PINKY on the left hand goes
NINJA, adds a note and makes a
SANER
CHORD.

HEARD my
NAVEL calling. It doesn’t do this often but sometimes as I
LABOR I hear it squirm and wriggle and writhe then
TAPER off.

MANGY cat, by the spicy
SUMAC, pay your equal
TITHEs of nine lives, each a
REMIT of the sequel.

SONAR from a swooping, silent
MIDGE sees a sure bet in my
FURRY skin, sets a scheme to
WRACK my sweet and simple, serene somnambulance.

BASTE the ramen? The
RAMEN, don’t baste. The taste is
STAID and woody. That
WOODY taste is such a waste.

The
TOCSIN rings its heraldic
TONIC, beginning of the new jazz
SUITE, a piece that quickly has our fingers
CLICKing, and toes ticking.

ENDOW did you intend to
SULLY my
DYING father’s name,
UTILE me!

CHIEF, new, female, comes in with a
SWIRL; the assembled staff say
SHUSH to each other, each one trying to
OUTDO each other in shushiness.