Monday, April 4, 2011


So tell me, who handles your self-appraisals?
Did marking time become glamorous again
and forget to tell me? Might as well hum
"Moon River" to yourself as the sun sickens
all you see, your glass eye tricked
into bemoaning another decade mistaken
for a charming delicatessen. Just imagine the
waste products that go into those years.
I'm having trouble calculating
their effect on my snooze bar,
their bubbling entropy. A grass stain remedy
might go well here. Let's see if it's not
an all-out cure. Mowing the frown right off your face
is my chief objective. Misanthropy is
my middle name, my undefended goal.

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