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The Funcle

I like hanging with the Funcle.

He knows the waitress from Woolworth’s and can

Charm her at Will.

On cue he gets cheese with his pie.

Someday soon he will cup her breasts.

His brothers are evil.

The women they date are

Shiny and Pink.

Someday soon they will win First Prize.

I like hanging with the Funcle.

Once we caught a pickerel the length of a gar.

Its bony teeth bit phantom steel and we

Smashed its Head on the State Line Bridge.

His brothers are virtuous and

Join the Choir.

Their signs light up the dark.

Who was it that told them The End Is Near?

I like hanging with the Funcle.

He’s writing a poem called Saxophone Heaven and

Posting a Selfie when the Big Hand hits Twelve.

His brothers have delusions of adequacy.

Their history bleeds out whenever it can.

First published by Synchronized Chaos

Tastes like chicken but like everything else it’s not. The liver is Nagasaki. The lungs Hiroshima or Jesse James and Dear Old Death comes to us all but the quiver is fantastic. Like lips full of bees.

Sidemen crouch in stairwells. Waiting to make their move. Microphones hiss. Like snakes on the take. Parker crushes his smoke and Raises the Horn. This is a Gig Baby and the liquor is Top Shelf. Remem

The house smells of apples and hard cold water. Your dog whimpers in her dream chair. Rabbits pouring out of countless bushes. Easy pickings when you are still. Outside there are stars. Cold and brigh

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