Franklyn Monk Dronecast #4 “(b)”
Shadows dance across an ashy fire pit.
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Oh, my soul
Main Content
Imagine I’m a mime berating your neighborhood. Fences become scaffolding for my ARGH! skins; I plaster them on everything. Great big ARGHS! on windows and gates and your cul-de-sac becomes my exclamation mark.
By the time you gasp, you’re covered in assorted ARGH! stickers, ARGH! patches, and a cute ARGH! hat.
“Oh, my soul.”
Endnotes
If you imagine that well enough you will understand the public shame I am facing. A collection of plug-ins, scripts, podcast solutions, and possibly Terms of Services, have colluded to destroy my creditability and happiness.
Your Instantaneous Self
because you are a poet
and I love you
and I know you love words
are what to you?
images
sounds
a long canyon with brown walls
vanishing to a speck
How about a cross section of blue
would it wave
would stars come out
Or are words an interpretation of
a shadowy tempest
that follows you around
swirling with symbols
that hint at
your instantaneous self
Do you reach in
and arrange these
runes
and pressures
into an ancient sentence
that glows while dancing
Do words make that make sense?
Yeow
Yeow, rich girl,
in a sexy yellow car.
Oh, let me leap in,
we needn’t go far—
And your head
is a fucking
Sunflower
which is being smushed in your
(What’s that called?
the distance between
your head and
the roof of a car)
in your zero head-clearance car,
which is STILL yellow,
as I pull away.