17/30: Speculative Derision On the Fourth Edge of Defensive Estate Sales

The word that
                        floats in and out of
common lexicon
                                                        and in and out
                                                        and in and out
                                                        of my repertoire

Things I just want to say, will
write whole paragraphs to justify
"gloaming" or "majestic" or "crustacean justice."
Efficacious and loquacious.

Feels
on my
tongue                               (ears, how it sounds)

Claiming a theory, a deep, academic knowledge
of the trips my tongue falls over, takes happy
hours of brain space to

justify
these lullabies on the spastic
twitch of finger jitter keyboard
molasses
these
not-jokes but
strictly, strychnine, sounds like hounds ate
clowns while dime-turned on a sentence
on a retrial caught on tapeworm by
innocent venison
(meat)
                                                 can't possibly
                                                 can't possibly
                                                 can't possibly

be seriousness. Furiousness. Curiousness.
Stopped rhyming my poems sometime
in High School, but the
urge
(somewhere in the brain near
where the puns are kept, but
both more vulgar and refined)
                                                never leaves,
just pops up                             like a bubble in soup

waiting to get popped, hammered, slammered,
betwixt the fortnight and the afterthought,
the punch-fought dirigible on the edge of bedside
morale, just ratcheting, ratcheting, ratcheting.