Torch the road!
Garbanzos galore!
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.