Sir Pure

attached to need
imperative to get greedy about clinging
both hands clasp that which is stuck
singing the praises of solitude & autonomy

Lord,like a young fellow sprung with Spring in his lungs!
he was born to bellow
loaded with the gift of wind in his ribs

if he had it to do all over
he would have tried to talk sense to that fool that first hurled
that very first boulder,long ago in Mesopotamia

as he sifts through all the cauliflower ears & sliced off noses
of his many adversaries
& a wayward wind blasts against his character armor
he mentally embraces all the cornball characters whom he ever created

Olive Oil caught in a meteor storm in the salad section of the Sav-Mart
with her drawers down
stocking up for what she termed “any eventuality”
if she’s not shook,
why should any creature be stirred

that Doom & Gloom mood
he just drops it
doesn’t want to be encumbered by curses or causality

like the department store window decorator was prone to blurt
“I just keep doin’ this lone arranger shtick.”
& the savage demon screams in a blood curdling yell

as the monastic monk peruses the porno pulchritude & declares,
“It is so very pure in its abstraction.”