Torch the road!
Private Eyes Investigating the dollar store whore.
Interception of the Rodeo Drive Klan,
Intermittent hands try to understand,
The rodeo clown and the sandman,
Waxing poetic with a beardless man.
Torch the sky!
Indeed it’s high!
You’ll need bigger stilts to satisfy, lie, or deny.
No more shaving down your bullets for a bruised-locket Saturday.
No more dimensions of power in your pocket of pigeon clay.
Deliver them from evil with a holy lust.
Deliver them, good sir, if you can’t you will bust.
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.
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