Published: April 15, 2010

Now, me-ow, he knows I’m so smitten, kitten. He buries his bible when

we burrow our bodies.

O, My knight is a boundary of a borough who mocks other brittle lines!

He used to be a drummer.

This manly baby unleashes his toes, despite the winter.

Mr. Writer is he an Antarctic giraffe and the most cosmopolitan of Eskimos.

I’ve purchased Play-Doh,

play’d 52 Pick-Up with my life.

Our peers know not the elasticity of morality.

O, Sweet cherub, I’d bomb them all but they are the cockroaches in this nuclear war!

Our teachers and preachers are consistently inconsistent. Though ever so intricately

plain, neither has enough heart luster to soul muster.

Some Thoreaus find their version of truth in a puddle of

leaves or in a pastor

of

grass.

I, like garbage men, could find reality in a mountain of rubbish. I taste Manhattan

and believe paradise is pollution and Eden is an island.

I know my Baseball Boy (a 79% Swedish Fish, razor-wing’d butterfly) drives

slower than a color printer, yet when purple, gossipy walls tittle-tattle, I don’t hesitate to hack

off their tongues.

When we bond, my blushing brain burps.

Weichert will start to sell jets.

O, We shall smoke Amsterdam air and ruminate in Rome!

My schedule is seething, but I make boxes of time for us in a forgotten factory.

Let’s plow Magellan out of employment! Let’s pulverize this planet through a

granite toilet!