Puce is the color of questions nobody wishes to raise
Puce is the color of bodies nobody wished to question
Puce is the color of answers once bodies have been raised
Puce is so not a thing it’s a color
Puce is use full when trying to bore your self silly
Puce is loose! In the valley, in the mall, the city…
Puce is a lovely color similar to that of aquamarine + tangerine
Puce is obscene.
The new mother, Not-Nature, has begun providing for
A creature craving to devour all the piss-poor stock and store
Of a world so stuffed with hunger that it praeys to feed no more.
Nesting instincts with bad habits birthed this bestial kind of bore –
Deadbolted locks on deadened hearts, laid brick in open doors.
Lives now recede into themselves, untouched like none before.
Lourdes is coughin’ on a Sponge Bob umbrella-
Checkin’ the price, and then she’s
Coughin’ again.
Lourdes is talkin’ about red bein’ dangerous.
She don’t have a Lexus, but she hopes
It would be black.
Lourdes is arrangin’ all the Beanie Babies,
‘Cause Beanie Babies just don’t
Straighten themselves.
Lourdes is cooin’ over Elvis Presley-
She says the King can be so
Hard to find.
“How far you wanna go inside this company?”
I’d rather go before the company comes…
I hate the shape of its communication.
Feels like who’s had a lobotomy.
…
Lourdes is coughin’ on a Sponge Bob umbrella-
Checkin’ the price, and then she’s
Coughin’ again.
“Come inside and pour a drink,” flows the man’s words from a stiff, smoking mouth. His essence is solidly mumbling grizzly. Frightened and frightening, lonely and proud, he speaks his low words into a damp chimney. Too strong to be lost, too weak to be found.
“I can’t right now. Maybe next time,” replies the estranger to the vanishing cloud. Aware of the presence of care in the calling, he hides nonetheless, afraid of the sound. Harboring sympathies, offering lies, he tries to save no soul today.
“Maybe next time,” they whisper and sigh, “Maybe next time.”
A few more steps down the line, then both die.
… It’s the bathroom.
Not compelling? No, why would it be.
Well… suppose I didn’t wash my hands!
And every second, I’m just being filthy!
Befouling all manner of object with germy-soil bedecked gropes and swipings!
Ah ha! Now we are getting somewhere!
…
We must be of one mind on this matter:
This time is pointless.
Whistling Dixie.
Whistling Dixie.
Whistling Dixie?
Would be more profitable, yes.
Our lives are precious.
When I am older, I will come here to pass gas.
There are those who have all the words-
More than they need each day.
But some of us more lowly sons
Must work for what we say.
For empty thoughts are sold and bought
Like rich men’s luxuries,
Then said aloud and heaved around
As ships on waves at sea.
A little thrift won’t deaden tongues,
But wastefulness just might.
The thirsty man has leaks galore;
There’s no place in a city for a sailor.
The shoreline along the freeway feels scarcely seaside, even at high tide.
Nickels & Dimes,
Hook, sinker & line.
There’s no place to stand on a cliffside.
Ten trembling toes and a diminishing line affords too brief a time.
Better just to leap.
In springtime, life is easy.
Never has any man suffered in earnest
Due to March air breathing and spring.
It’s just when where we shop is where we live,
We end up home and barely speaking–
Barely living, is more like it, when it’s us and them and screens.
Convenience is a venom, Venus. It’s a you more bad than good.
And a workplace is a prison, minus fresh air,
And just two weeks off for being good.
It’s where we have to be to not die–
And to die simultaneously:
Happening at the same time, we say,
“There is nothing more brutal than this!”
But that’s not true when it is springtime.
Here’s the trick:
That season is every day, sirs,
And all that’s cold is you.
Few things are truly “dying.”
It’s more like most things “are.”
So why waste time on feeling rotten
While still respiring without thought?
(Especially when it’s springtime)
You should not.
No soul can trap a moment
–Tap your touch screen all you please–
But each nerve remembers versions
Like old books they will reread.
And not a one’s recalled more fondly
Than even the dullest days
Of spring.
If I am just a shape–
Divide me up.
Bisect all my angles.
Choose a point enclosed within-
Try to find my center.
It was around the time we were discussing our respective tax troubles that Mitchell completely snapped. He just jumped up, walked straight outta the depot, and disappeared.
I heard a little later on that he had gone and scaled the east side of a laundromat using jutting bricks and air intake vents as footholds. Apparently, when Mitchell got to the top, he just lied on the roof for a few days. He told everybody who saw him that he was just collecting his thoughts. Really though, he was just collecting noxious fumes from all that roof tar.
It was seasonably hot here in Guatemala, so his common sense really dropped the ball on informing him to avoid doing something like that. But who knows, maybe common sense is the first organ to succumb to roof tar. Science has its fair share of blank spots, and there’s no sense in harping on ’em to try and make it blush.
Either way, we can all agree that ole Mitch was never too much for thinking. There’s no doubt about that, seeing as how he never did catch-on to the affair that I’ve been having with his wife, for what, like seventeen years now? We haven’t exactly been discreet about it either. Anybody remember Carlos Siega’s Christmas party two years ago? What a night. But perhaps this isn’t the time to get into all that. Water under the bridge, as they say.
So yeah. He sold key chains to tourists, his wife didn’t much care for him, and he owed a few years in back taxes that now he’ll never have to pay. That about sums up the life of ole Mitchell Rebbins, so whaddya say we file his eulogy under “DONE” and call it a day? I’ll be seeing most of you at the after party down at Wallbanger’s.
Dismissed!
Words & Works 