DABBLING IN THE DEAD DAYS OF CARPET BURNS
It looks like an atomized toolkit extinction
is making a beeline across a tightly-woven spitfire carpet
towards a gilded neighborhood near you real soon.
Moving vans seemingly coming from Mars
have been lining up for days without stamped paperwork.
It has been said that 41,000 doctors have started probing
only those who have been mesmerized by the suburban misfits
making the rounds near the meteor landing site of last summer.
Since it was giddy day in the Odysseus sandbox,
I took my time before dissembling my rational roots
from an Abyssinian recovery that placed me
near the Horn of Africa for the duration of sweet fig season.
Someone had better put their foot down
on the current chainsaw political rampage.
After our dead-day election, a balloon was
floated up my Eustachian Tube
before I could cry uncle or channel my contempt.
It did not take long for all cliffside dwellers
pressed against a crumbling coast to take up
a crusty metaphysical bitcoin collection
for my possible stunning barbaric recovery.
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