nice time formula // jumbo marvelous domesticity
jilt // by dint of little else

... p a u l ...

... b i s a g n i ...

Nice Time Formula

What we heard above us was less a titanomachy
than the neighbors’ ado, but a little bedizenment
does our senses good, and I’m weary of granting
pathogenic potential to the drops I feel on my calf
from time to time. 
                        The dew’s passé. Let’s admit
the volatility of an Aegean spume, or auratic condensate’s
coherence across planes. At any moment the supernal 
can be mediated, as I learned when Cher tweeted,
“Can you see me,” and in place of a question mark,
there yawned what can only be called the non-terminus 
of somewhere other, your mother’s backyard row of rutabagas
absent the plot a skunk had plundered. I’m sad she’s dead.
                        Our soufflés, I fear, will founder 
from here on out. 

~

It boils down to an innocent misprision: canary, not dandelion, 
is the color of the walls against which our nightly badinage
bounces. On the topic of Tuesday Weld’s unglamorous 
career choices, you averred she was a peroxide blonde. 
Please focus on the craft. It’s the least you can do. 
                       We can’t avoid surfaces, or maybe 
it’s the other way around: sensation spikes 
our bounds, and love’s a trigonometric function.
I will watch the treacly octopus doc despite my qualms
only if you sit in the sprung-out parlor chair, marigold
and ill-upholstered,
                      negating what’s gone haywire
beneath you.

Jumbo Marvelous Domesticity Jilt

With no “you” in this environs
I’m hailed in 
so scenic maquillage of standing
in spots all decorous 
to present
and farded with respect
by jambed windows
a joy chitter 
toothsome and jettisoned 
through the impassivity
and quadrangular sways
these words are individual
for good reason and culling
“that is to say” and culling
fuliginous crabdaddy display
of “I’m just happy you’re
here” the “I” crepitant
wormed off on a lark
back to the dingle it’s 
always back to the 
dingle so belonging can 
blet near Orlov Most and a bevy
hill twigs nigh satisfied   
jaunt carp goitering smokeheap 
tilt to magmic
ma petite oubliette
spansule introject
horned ladybugs astride
my druthers’ torsos 
“my thinking’s torsion intimates”
pert-nose fanfaronade 
it’s the everywhere sense
of vermicelli 
it’s the aspiring 
to nastic auto
habitation 
and brook abutment
and stowaway sillion 
grist for psittacine glamping 
Melvyn my pal
denuded of good tips
like acid washed 
gonzoest tachycardia 
hobbled the speedwalker 
in a last-ditch aria  
and a Euhemerist’s gotta
get wroth as ever 
separation of church
from mulch like
gewgaw
heehaw 
gravamen collapse
tintinnabular raphe 
what started sad
impulse towards pudibund
roaringly as lullaby
titled berceuse to 
impress ironed blitz
ogees unpasteurized 
prettying after all
corners of floor to ceiling
cynosures won’t hold
butts elbows alarums crisps
gorse acrolith pleroma bots
without dawn or bust
let atomize
stakes out to graze
begin the unsifted lowing 
thalassocracy of nice undies   
and paucity and mirth
and meat pics and halidom
may loogies detonate
my catarrhless company

By Dint Of Little Else

Peanut butter and ice cream won't mingle.

	               Poured whole milk on both,

but I was dead in the dream for five months.

A fawn knows about the weather.

Sigourney Weaver knows about the weather.

		      The fish flakes fall like...

A patch of snow outside the patch of shade it fits within.

I don't recall ever seeing an owl in a tree.

		      One can draw one. It’s like a manatee—

rudimentary lines. I’ve penciled our date in.

Bagels for lunch and squabbles in the sedan.

We don’t need another fern. 

		       Capucine had three cats. Capucine had a lissome nape. 

                        Capucine jumped out of her apartment.

But I never went through an Ancient Egypt phase.

		       Aware of being dead for five months—

The bottom burner detached from its cables.

Confessed to an artist my ignorance of joinery.

		       Glue works on all levels but the beautiful, and

Jane Fonda's films will pacify the pissy.

                        I am an actress!

		       It’s hard to act 

expired. But one can easily feign confusion.

The lotus candle is a recent acquisition.

		      Woke up parched

after lying dead. Out of lentils and toilet paper. 

A manatee’s nose is surprisingly dimensional. Well, yes, it’s an animal.

Every day the grass abloom with ice flakes.

		      Fish flakes for Algernon that

		      Boudicca won’t touch...

Jane Fonda as Kitty Twist made do in a dusty pipe.

		      Took a bite out of Tony Perkins

to recapture the gist of the dream.

Cadaverous with joie de vivre.