the first time you shooed up; this time.

you, who
are as stupid
as salt licks frequented
by the appliance people, who
assays like rythims of bannana peel clock
pendulums, does the simmering pot cook up
and serve to the ambitions of tiger eyes
over there, the toaster is your mother
and the flypaper dispenser is your
father and the little brother
you always professes was
more garage door opener
is the cool-air only hair
dryer, plugged in in the rain
and when it rains, it pours, unless it snows, then it stays.
Till the 15th of april, apparently. , but only
if you are a french toast maker appliancer, plying
the trade room floor in a 120 volt pair of
dustbuster shoes,
stinking like the one who's mother, so full
of ambition, is a trashcompactor,
only going compact, retract, compact, retract,
compact and crack the plastic networks of solidified ferns.