After Brown Bag Lunch by Barbara Beck
Saying “Fidget”, “Catsup”, “Brittle” helps, but only so much.
Crinkle truth with a smidgeon of faked post-apocalyptic quotation.
Pascal meets Nietzsche on the Mercator relishing a brunch with the beyond.
Call this unwrapped kinky planisphere a self-accusation.
Solitude a denizen lithe as cosmic conspiracies.
Cut yourself on the glass endtable. On purpose?
The same plane’s flap choking is under-suspicious.
Downed the Boeing regardless.
Stand-up crew mechanics control is a stretch.
Posterity? Its worthlessness is lost in the distorted smear campaign.
Sop up rectangular remainders of the self designed by allusion.
Never touch the word. Litter. Skulk. Ire.
A pool gathered to fund past futures marketing affairs gone awry.
The bond relatively closer comes calling.
It’s evidence is messier, but quieting.