Ma wink\'n and blink\'n
mind nod yet awake,
nor insights keen,
asper ho hum usual, this
(day-glo bull leave
me you) after noon,
(October thirtieth
two thousand and eight teen),
mine myopic brown
marbled occipital orbs
fixate upon a
lone blinking cursor -
hooping such intense stare
will magically glean
a divine comedy,
or even mediocre
shaky spear writ tragedy, none
the less letting thoughts
glom (cess) pool like
into some elusive essence,
finding me madly chasing
(feebly, lamely, queerly
and ridiculously
likened to a teen
age paramour) intriguing,
nattering, and wordlessly
spellbinding notion
all the way to Abilene,
perhaps metamorphosing
into a topnotch
poem (ska lean),
swiftly tailored harried
style even out rivaling
the best newsy
Lake Woebegone fabulist
(formerly Nordic European)
scribes, that juiced might earn
me some crisp
legal tender green,
yet impetus to write,
NOT predicated on ram
ping up checking account,
which primary queen
tis essential money source
of mine to pay bills
appears extremely lean,
and thus apologize if
any hint of desperation
(PULL EASE pledge to
Matthew Scott Harris charity)
seeps extemporaneously typing
this poetic expression,
when financial resources
picked bone dry clean,
and me fanciful
thoughts cannot help
wishing for miraculous
intervention tub bring,
a raft of smiley faces
tomb eye gentle mien
such as receiving
an anonymous bajillion
dollars donated (tummy)
from tennis scene legend
(in her own mind)
aerie Billy Jean
King, whose near
exhaustive earnings -
at least compared
to thy germane mein kampf
(accrued during - her mist
starry re:us horse sing around)
straw berry fields
forever hay day
with tangerine trees,
and marmalade skies
completing tennis
(tense) backdrop against
engendered match with
the late Bobby Riggs.