Khamsin quiets the dessert bullets;
One-Thousand kyats for your thoughts,
Kneaded into the folds of your mind,
Sharpening the knives of your addiction,
Holding one-thousand kips of force.

You wrote your middle name in keelivine pencil,
At the high kirk of Edinburgh,
With a kitteny disposition.
Fallen blossoms flow down stream around the river’s kink,
Where Walter kippers his herring.


Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.