MPG of Wild BoarNoah Siela
Some of the muffins here lack self-esteem,
the poppyseed guilt-baked with narcotic false positives.
Wolf, wolf! it yells to its scone neighbor
who’s busy hiding Occam’s razor
under reliable blueberry’s base,
butter-dense in its scalloped-pressed wrapper.
Always have razor-hiders for friends,
the planet’s foghorn stuck on blow
and the current state of electrical sleuthing
far from adequate enough to dampen its decibels
let alone tucker itself to death
with a million attaboy back slaps.
Oh God! Don’t even get me started
with the amount of bad guys out there
dematerializing the fail-safe blueprints
by stained-glassing elementary science,
the bad guys walking fast and backward
everywhere so they have the advantage
of not knowing what’s going to kill
them to impede them from killing
while the rosary-twirling near-dead
baby fiddle with the radio nob
to banish the static
to see when to emerge from the attic
to attack, their last act of valor.
It’s a tough world, muffin, full of subtropical forests
with overworked gorillas clubbing their children to death
while an unclassified super mosquito
slurps up the clubber’s type-O,
non-scholar, result-thick Ares rides his wild boar
in the HOV lane and nothing we really want to do about it
because it’s a naked guy with a spear
on top of a wild boar and we’re always hungry
and distraction-needy on our commute every morning
after leaving the house angry and sad that we,
again, dropped the toast memory-side down.
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