Rude awakenings
with grit and sandpaper,
squat-thrusting was never this painful,
never relevant.

That invasive blue fairy,
telling me to listen
with deafened ears
and paper cups

Tied with rubber bands
and weasel pelts
stripped to the teeth,
which make a fine necklace.

Playing hard to get
with pipe dreams
and a sort of backbeat
of ass rap and peppermint kisses.

Those soggy cookie crisps
go down, hard,
stale like bitter limestone,
like crash and burn nutrition.

“Gee whiz bro”,
the beatnik utters amusement,
reeking of after school specials
and expired TV dinners.

Fetching giggle shorts,
a sight for sore retinas
in sexual experimentation,
or loss of identity.

Ham-boning or pond-skimming,
it never matters in the scheme
of mud caked pots and pans
from years after the fall,

The fall of man,
of soup kitchen generosity,
of karmic bingo parlors,
which gamble bones instead of chips.