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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 02 March 2010 17:09 |
Ibkek sits idly by the meadow's green and varied blooms,
paid only inattention. He, not minutes passing nigh,
envies but this bumble who black-and-gold buzzes onward
with purposeful zags. "She fits so nicely here," he mumbles.
"Why, even duller drones, though weak and puny, have a place."
The worker, she might envy Ibkek this, his freedom's moan
to fritter life drinking, but busy harvests push instead
her bee-bound thoughts, set upon a queen's idyllic kinking. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 02 March 2010 17:07 |
The current threat level is an abstractly arranged orange, according to this not-so-human
voice squawking on behalf of my all-too-human government. It's for everyone's protection.
Outside the airport windows, greater Baltimore squats against Tuesday's sky, suspiciously solid
in its concrete pour of gray. She's coy on when things might brighten again. I'll have to wait with my bags,
unattended and unsure whether old homes can ever feel as homey. I make do pretending
someone has swapped those two colors. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 18 February 2010 12:37 |
Hectored by the pit-a-patter of frozen pellets, you might hear these dented eaves wheeze and sneeze lubricious comparisons, but it's a thickly frosted fiction that their bulbous white noses look anything like eggshells.
In springtime's crick-cracking they will however birth a frog with not so princely disposition: Hacksaw in hand, he'll eye your roommate and that footlocker where she keeps invaluables of an oddly personal nature.
His plan is to hip-hoppity leave you red-faced, trying to calm this panicked friend with un-fairy tales of a burglar amphibian who muttered of moral decay, mis-fabled crowns, and the strangeness of saved fingernail clippings. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 02 March 2010 17:10 |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 02 March 2010 17:06 |
Lucifer's Cardinals are blowing pink smoke again. They've picked their ping-pong pontiff, to the joy of throngs watching patient brick stacks remotely on brightly monitored feeds.
The Chosen One, festooned in a make-shift, milk-carton miter plastered with photos of never-lost souls, climbs atop His Coke-can throne to declare, "I'm likable law made flesh!"
Then, this dystopic pope, turning to His scroll wailer, sotto voce warns, "I am a weakish speller, but read it as best you can," and hands her a paper-clipped parchment.
Catty smile petting her with purrs of "nice smug me," the tonsil-crowned crier takes it and leaps to heroes glide down where His nonsense cannon of ten misrules is to be revealed.
Meanwhile, back up on Earth, Man — a rag doll in hand and aching from the expert prick of voodoo-dabbling God's exactingly pinned scraps, all wincing "Who do you think you are?" —
Approaches the coaxial saint who sits in a simulated wood-grain box and beams beacons of haloed pixels phishing for fools in search of non-queasy forgiveness.
Man fits to a T-S-A that anesthetic profile. He pulls from his pocket prescriptions slipped to him by back-alley preachers with promises of a tidier healing.
For a few coins, he gets his video-dispensed penance: the rosary of disposable beads he'll rub once, toss, then return to that life perpetually stuck on truancy. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 18 February 2010 12:27 |
This misbegotten spoke of rueful light, having been kicked from his unclean-too sheltering by the bully- bruised sky, exhausts himself repeating ungallant falls into winter-wronging crowds.
Thick disapproval oozes out an aural complaint punctuated with amber clots, ensnaring the flippant and the shifty but to fix their toady meanings inside polished globules of today. |
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