poem: boutique your geisha

armenian chocolate boutique,
your geisha's showin', cher,
ample feedmill severance pay:
if you squander the wander,
you'll sit tight in the afterwhey,
all cuspidy spiders dancin
in your eggy egghead.
it's the simple that matters,
as your garage sale mentality
grows beyond Aristotelian shugga-shugga,
that damn Archies song ain't half
as bad as we all used to think
(when we wuz thinkin'),
& the old roll down Old Canton,
whether flip side or not,
whether tethered or retro,
whether solid or golden ass
shining out for all the world to see,
is a conundrum we so seldom get to meet
in these psycho killer daze of
wampum and wanderlust,
beaver cleaver tentacles
in the 7 Rivers of June
we all partied for, canvassing
the willow tribes,
jejune prophecies mis-
calculating these Five and Dime
custardmongers, fabricating
the essence dolls,
accentuating the fervent
halls of dim sum catastrophe:
apostrophize your damn name, son,
it fits the calcifying calculus
of your eternal flame.