Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                         Page 56
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I face the fragrant    
   	            with the nose of Hiawatha
            sensing the nuance of a bud
	            in bungee terrace
a fair trade of tossable Scotch whiskey vapors
            the scrape of pen to paper
      when nominal moths pose 
                         woodsy parameters
I sink into a Brink's truck
	of time-savored periodontics 
		 in a piecemeal accord
Lord Henry Godiva   a chiming half-citizen
			       of binge-watching.

Crimped knees  breed elbows
	      of slow-cooked marination
a James Beard 	unbridled
	  at the cost of gravy-buttons
the scuttling of greeny boats
	     astride   the yellow dinghy
a Ming vase-worth of versification 
	          in moist hands
    a freely espoused scouring
		      of the latest news-bite
	the bad is outweighed by the sadly done
a run-of-the-mill sawbuck 
		     at the greasy spoon.
So deep I say     drowning
       in the heave-ho of localized
		hurts   I'm skirting past
the last-ditch sugary sentiment-element.
          Have I manhandled
		 mermaids of iridescent tail, 
		         marshalled arts
        in a carful of comedians
itching to out-chortle  the grim torch
	 of warships on the treadmill,
		 the distrusting   tug-of-love
      possible at the wispy perimeter?

Yellow ruddy greenish-brown
           the jaundice sets in
		   on the scurvy purview
 of a through-the-heart market share
			 of eroded lodestars
the parmesan sprinkled freely
    over the artisan lens
            which captures friends at play
		   repapering the kitchen walls
    in the goop of wheatpaste
            	squeegee fal-de-la
 a soft sell of gelatine pudding
	    running the entire show.

"Dimes over the eyes"  I say
	     the dawn arriving
at the ping-pong portal
      of another  toss of the dice.

The thirst which comes with 
		first cry
    casts a mile-long shriek
in the heavenly menace of mountains
       hung over with moonshine
              overcome by  Arby's secret sauce
the cause lost at the calling
	the errant rose left 
		in a pool of petals.
  Mitch Corber