Jean Savory savoried her way
down the dipstick nines,
slave to fashion,
romance novelist of the royal
climes, formulaic
congress after the egress -
a thrifty mess indeed -
chatter-worthy
back door mamas
in they classic poils,
inching their ways into
the deep ends,
bicameral ration toadies,
casual spelunkers,
situational ethics take a back seat
to page 79,
a mighty hurrah
for petty metals - since
you were asking -
dribble that sauce over
your past tense
vegematics:
the last clime was
roses and tartan plaid,
a carousing tarantella -
page 152 might have
grown an inch or two -
she was ever not when
she was naughty, it figured
gaily into the margins
for error -
grace on 193,
afterwhich aftertimes twas
anyone's guess,
your burden,
his sancho panza
their missing person,
her inarticulate, ghostwriterly, astro-criminal
crimes.

poem: merge not

[Facebook trolling again. Thanks to Rod - and his auto-correct - for NASCAR mascara and "take turns in the merge." Thanks, too, to the State of Minnesota.]

NASCAR mascara
the Ovaltine babies rain down
bliss in the ovals
corruption on the inner turf
vagrancy abounds round
the tapping wounds
sealing the rivers
of mongrel overtime
she rode one hard
& karioke'd the rest
take turns in the merge
not one of her favorite
flavors, she had other mantras
for sale, diddly on the square side
a sodding mess
virtual reality in Bristol
on the up side
call of the wild
she left her numbers
in the stall
left her facebook, too
urls dime a dozen
samsonizing the plastic babies
the bon temps
the Cali-mamas
the friendlies
the passion teas
over & under
time out of mind
a vigorous antiseptic
to the septic mind
I ask you
this your Murkin dream?
this your donut hole?
this the last time you
investigate the sullied
casualties of your cowgirl bowl?