I) The Presley Southwest
Ego over dinner with driver of EMT,
the hour we went vowel-less
stocked with the comfort foods
of meteor scientists.
Colon-flense this sentence,
its period too fibrous,
the gurgling pulpit to your gig line, fig-left.
Prynne, New Mexico; Hester, Vermont.
Olympic-sized testosteroner Phelps
meets with chlorine pitchmen,
dungeon for Pistorius.
hound dog discomfiting,
nicotine’s compromised positron
driving prices in the direction of JC Penney.
Periwinkle filed under femme:
the Indigo Girls’ top groupie,
my nonprofit boss.
II) Bill, It Ain’t So
Strum a grim strip-o-gram
guitar plus volta.
Doctor, distill my toxic swain,
Q-tip blood for your hour-long wait.
“Watch for my crumb-flint mastiff,”
I say all animal psychic,
Passion Sunday, Hallmark’s not-so-
cash cow, post-Ash.
Justify that Madonna primordial:
not lucky star,
Paula Abdul’s glum grain,
This ᗅᗺᗷᗅ track lacks Anni’s “Mamma
Mia,” plus iambic logic from
da pugilist-diggity crux.
Carl W: sans Vanity,
will you do an Action Jackson II?
Ms. Curtis, can you talk about Dan Aykroyd?
So many films in which you
and that Canadian co-act.
Scruffy Banbury, my porn alias.
Cousin Mary’s, Guy Park.
Bill Murray, do you chasm your ghosts?
III)Thereby Em D.
The caravan jeers,
the applecart adheres.
Yugo selects the solar tea
brewed on my brother’s Plymouth roof,
warlock buckled and broomed.
don’t forget the turtleneck,
the dancehall a chow wagon begets.
You get two poem uses
out of mollycoddle and defenestrate.
Share an alley, take your colleague’s
overheated car when you look for felon-wear
on Hardy Street. OCD means
you ordered three cuffs, COD.
Status quo near a costumer’s bungalow,
my jewels aft of the bookshelf’s VHS.
Have you seen Three Men and a Baby melt?
There’s an urban legend where a ghost-boy
pops up halfway through.
Ted Danson for Steve Guttenberg,
Selleck scorned for curmudgeonry
of O’Donnell when they talked
Somewhere Shelly Long
adorns a stash of Cheers,
the Rebecca years.
Somehow, my grandma’s stole
sequesters the room of glean.
What people don’t know about fur
trappers would occupy a La-Z-Boy
whose contours maladjust.
Scotchgard, could you be a cycle less?
Law and Order, must you resort to the freezer
as body dump? Belzer, your Scarface
scene made me laugh.
IV)The Fifteen-Minute Windshield
Have that trait where the gray eye
is left, blue eye is right?
That’s basic grandeur.
Riffraff, prism pilaf,
the basket-able trend.
All I’ll say is ride the Schwinn mutiny,
pedal serendipity’s highfalutin.
Sip a Sprite, press pens
with Bens Lerner and Vereen.
Flashbulb in a gutter,
May I change the channel?
It’s filth’s zenith
(rerun a Cinemax).
Centaurs have their place,
ask fraternities and Mr. Ed.
I’m dating a marsupial whisperer and his ranch,
better than the Sadie Hawkins
where I fell uphill
during the perp walk, pre-queer.
In triage wards, I shun urges fragged by respect.
We hardwired the thief,
gave him a yam habit.
Edgewise, the mantle talk;
The villa wore Crest White Strips,
pomade reflected a falsehood swing set.
Their glee gel eagle-eyed,
residents hollowed a ventilator czar
betrothed to a fireside chat.
Wasps eroded, octaves escalated static:
Mister Firearms crowned
Miss Americoal Miner,
friend of the Palm Olive heir.
Breathe Right, the family millions.
Gee, a barbary librarian staging revolt,
the palimpsest a phlebotomist-enervated gale
(Type O cancelled to inclement kale).
is it time for the third act of INXS?
The artisan clay-fired a ceramic Sarlaac pit,
another did the brothel’s income tax.
The Macy’s lady asked if I was
some formalist adrift.
Redact a letter
and it topples a psychopomp.
Better glottals lie ahead.
Jon Riccio is a PhD candidate at the University of Southern Mississippi's Center for Writers where he serves as an associate editor at Mississippi Review. His work appears in print or online at Booth, The Cincinnati Review, Eratio, Hawai'i Review, Permafrost, Switchback, and Waxwing, among others. He received his MFA from the University of Arizona.
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