The Consumed Poet Prepares to Cross Over to the Other Side: Or, Aphorisms Run Amok

The early poet prepares to not let a rendezvous with the cubbyholes of history to deflate any and all aspirations to be resuscitated by rapture.
The distracted poet prepares to take the shape of a swan in a pinch as a sweet wall of blossoms protects intricate exchanges of impoverishment.
The early poet prepares to retool the kinetic dichotomy that took assimilation off the table.
The marauding poet prepares to masquerade as a permanent structure on the prairie in order to trap intelligent life.
The early poet prepares to footnote the fleshy approximations of prodigious testimonials.
The Harold Pinter poet prepares to be as menacing as a lump of laughter.
The Willy Loman poet prepares to skip the sales pitch and go directly to the sample case from hell.
The biofeedback poet prepares to buy a kiss from the redhead who lives in the burning house on the next block.
The Our Gang poet prepares to belt out bad opera on the backlot of a second childhood.
The early poet prepares to alter the dosage on erratic approaches to windmills.
The conundrum poet prepares to bend a thunderbolt into a sturdy bookcase for the torn mandates of heaven.
The boomer poet prepares to live forever inside a nonjudgmental Venice bungalow with three dogs, two cats, a turtle on Prozac, and a dragonfly that knows all the answers.
The mailman poet prepares to deliver inspirational sketches to paranoid shut-ins across the southland.
The early poet prepares to be preoccupied with the purification of a prurient plot.
The canal poet prepares to dredge up an arcade full of noxious obsessions.
The receding poet prepares to cut back on all unnecessary rhetoric around the edges.
The early poet prepares to pour water on the exception instead of the rule and watch rows of struggling languages snap back with time-lapse film.
The Pandora poet prepares to wrap a bushel full of fancy presents that will stain the world with a lust for dread.
The disingenuous poet prepares to take back everything that was covered by the previous agreement.
The early poet prepares to search for an infinite freshness through the wrong end of a telescope.
The intruder poet prepares to divert all attention away from the helter skelter commingling of indeterminate repercussions.
The severed poet prepares to give numbers to all the parts left out in the rain with the riffraff.
The bicycle poet prepares to do a barefoot flip over the handlebars.
The Parcheesi poet prepares to commit perjury in the arms of a prime location.
The Ozzy poet prepares to think up a few very eerie polka metal tunes.
The early poet prepares to chime in down a windy road where perception counts eviction notices.
The preacher poet prepares to take a big plunge into two nonparallel faces of hospitality.
The harebrained poet prepares to fly south by way of the cobweb of melancholy.
The early poet prepares to disinherit all insubstantial mirages.
The route 66 poet prepares to wax up the corvette before landing in the middle of a family feud with a pretty Peggy coming between friends.
The tall poet prepares to look an unbalanced mountain dead in the eye and tell it to shape up before buzzcut season comes around.
The early poet prepares to not be undone by the iridescent bliss being offered by the heart.
The chameleon poet prepares to take up residence on the underside of a spring moon as wildflowers grow yellow to the sky.
The early poet prepares to redirect all the water under the bridge away from the frayed castles and family cups terracing around a floating choreography.
The Viking poet prepares to set sail for the outer reaches of the back porch with puzzled squirrels jumping ship for the safety of the wobbly roof.
The early poet prepares to step clear of all the banana peels that could take this day in a whole new direction.
The Monty Python poet prepares to serve a meal with prawns and stuff fit for all proper English mothers dressed for sleep.
The method poet prepares to mumble all the way up Mt. Hollywood in hopes of meeting the ghost of a young Marlon Brando.
The early poet prepares to not fall prey to a professorial exclamation collapse lurking in the halls of collaboration.
The contraband poet prepares to smuggle a batch of thoroughbred dust in a bag of loose fitting skin across the rope bridge that spans a conical depression.
The supportive poet prepares to attach a transcendental amount of weight to the words of others.
The door-to-door poet prepares to do some heavy cushion inflation for therapists with sinking sectional couches.
The early poet prepares to oversee the meticulous alignment of a mountain gazebo atop the molehill of a mind.
The Medici poet prepares to walk in vermilion with the weather relegated to a private wing of the Louvre.
The inverse poet prepares to scrub the navel from the inside out and the touching of the toes is once again an Olympic event.
The early poet prepares for the aftermath of something as the ripple effect carries the mother of all wighats out the window.
The curveball poet prepares to have some scary optical illusions ready to go for opening day.
The alchemist poet prepares to bubble up into the atmosphere with Clint Eastwood riding shotgun.
The shadow poet prepares to do the dance on the far wall of forgiveness.
The early poet prepares for a rapprochement between hard cider and overhanging trees after hours of diplomatic negotiations held in the hand of magnified wings.
The birthday poet prepares to save the midnight snack for the daylight hours when the shambles of celebration will be in full tilt.

The rural poet prepares to take the first dirt road past the dairy farm where the honeysuckle and variegated ivy collide.

The early poet prepares to align the swaying window silhouettes separated by receding paper.
The offshore poet prepares to float a few vowels in the face of a flotilla of consonants.
The early poet prepares to expand what is containable and to contain what is expandable.
The pickpocket poet with the scratchy talent prepares to lift a line or two from the tomb of the undiscovered Bedouin scribe who fell off the globe on flat day at the cheesecake factory.
The early poet prepares to inhale the semiprecious vapors of an anxious migration of thought.
The whispering poet prepares to tone down the static emanating from between the ears.
The pack rat poet prepares to stuff the cupboard with cans of immaculate mischief.
The revolutionary poet prepares to pin proclamations to the shower curtains of the dead.
The early poet prepares to turn the unsaid into a ruckus.
The campfire poet prepares to tap into testimonials of the trees.
The early poet prepares to ban fidgeting from the breakfast table.
The maybe poet prepares to make words cough up a new angle.
The fussy poet prepares to sweep up the shards of sunshine that have gathered in the corners of the driveway.
The LA poet prepares to advance up Mt. Washington at dusk.
The wise poet prepares to relish the divine pull of emptiness.
The early poet prepares to be charmed by the baritone of the river.
The intermittent poet prepares to be pelted by sad syllables.
The skittish poet prepares to set up camp under the grand piano.
The early poet prepares to make room for puttering on the shady street of purpose.
The giddy poet prepares to give the thesaurus a breathalyzer test.
The early poet prepares to put the fatted calf through its paces.
The early poet prepares to laugh at the private asylum built by the past.
The hardboiled poet prepares to keep one eye on guard the whole night long.
The stowaway poet prepares to disappear among some disheveled deck chairs.
The early poet prepares to paint fanaticism into a neutral corner.
The brute poet prepares to do battle with the blank page before sundown.
The early poet prepares to take the temperature of an indescribable banality.
The late poet prepares to put one big psychotic tooth under a diaphanous pillow.
The early poet prepares to acknowledge the tyranny of parlor indiscretions.
The Dylan poet prepares to go as cryptic as crayons in Sunday school.
The Elvis poet prepares to scare the sun out of its socks.
The early poet prepares to measure the morning rhythm of the insect world.
The village poet prepares to have a conference call with subterranean termites.
The early poet prepares to drag the sky for lost luggage.
The punk poet prepares to do a header into the mosh pit.
The early poet prepares to gaze at the blueprint in the mirror with the steady eye of an engineer.
The fanatic poet prepares to work the alphabet until it drops.
The early poet prepares to be a handwritten note in a spring pocket.
The early poet prepares to disappear in the strength of astral ligatures.
The early poet prepares to terrify the day with lustful silence.
The mid-day poet prepares to have a gondola moment on the way to the market.
The early poet prepares to be humbled by the nearest living accident in the garden.
The restless poet prepares to talk about seedless metaphysics with the gardener.
The early poet prepares to be less intimidated by the density of an unexpected smile.
The uneasy poet prepares to confront the intentions of a double-edged thought.
The early poet prepares to pocket at least a day’s worth of plausible deniability.
The cranky poet prepares to push the already dented dream over the dam.
The early poet prepares to ride a dromedary deception through the day.
The sleepy poet prepares for the BBC on the radio—war, pestilence, cricket scores.
The early poet prepares to play golf with the Buddha in scorpion country.
The cool poet prepares to not care about the cowgirls kicking down the barn door.

Gone Missing

I was the missing son who
lived under his mother’s feet,
not the dead son who drove
her crazy from daylight to
sundown with a father who
begged her to shape up and
fly right in the eyes of God.
He had been a farmer’s boy
with a nose for local history.
She had been a city girl with
the hands of a poker player.
I was the skinny kid who
drank extra rich milk and
loved crunching on hard candy,
not the unborn son who was
a genius in the making and
would have loved to pin his
parents to the wall like Amazon beetles .