he mood strikes to write in a peculiar manner. To speak of that which cannot be described except by the bizarrest-meaning terms. To stretch vernaculars like putty, craft the craftiest of hodgepodged whimmeries, then skip off merrily through the leavenings of Fall like a bansheed fairy!

Thus we have the following, the result of all this “linguistic linguini” — to quote Volume One of my lifestory — a poem about the sheer oddity of it all. Whatever “it” might be. So, without further t’ado . . .


O’ forlornious fickleness

The glib grinniest glomstrous of finaglings

My tongue doth swoon at your wry feckless moon

My heart beats wildly fraught

Caged like a witless baboon


Desist and begone, you fey unctuator!

Ceaseless wretched ghoul of the swamp

Wherein lies a goopish oozing frothful soup

Beyond which I know naught

Just the wheeze of my inner child’s croup


Lest these phrasings pursue no pattern

But the prattle of a rattled brain

I shall seek to explain my utterings inane

As the syncopated flight of a tattered moth

Wings spattered like gibbous wanes


For you see there can be no explanation

Befitting the flit of my erstless bile

Deformity will never submit to conformity

My words neither straighten nor flow

They have a mind of their own


And as such we spew preposterosities

The likes of which none wish to hear

Hence do I quibble and scribble for only my ears

While the world wags a finger to tow the line

What can I say?

I must placidly disobey.

~ Published ~
November 6, 2009

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