Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 56
                                   
Table of
Contents
AT THE MALL


107 various boxes of incense
The homey aroma of fresh baked pizza
Topped of plastic cheese and cheapo toppings
-the kind which gives off acid indigestion--
The challenging odors of movie house popcorn
topped with post apocalyptic grunge rock jazz
blending into Mall Muzak!!!
      -- Kills the appetite!!
In the store we sell incense to make you
believe in yourself or force upon others
Sadness
         Madness
                Money & Murder
Buying cheap ass incense to kill ex-lovers,
win big Lotto, taunt your neighbors, haunt
innocent animals.
Call Money/ Dream of Fairies/Attraction/ Witch Hunt//
New House/ Baby Jesus and Kill The Ex- Lovers.
The titles on boxes with instructional use are by far as destruction can follow.
107 varieties made from the cheapest shit on Earth!
All for the Love of POWER!!

  Teresa Costa __
SHOPPING

I find myself obscured
for fashion.
Outdated clothes
low heeled shoes
mini skirts
and green felt boots
only fairies wear.

My size is medium
                 large
              & extra large.
Depending on what particle
fits where.
If I could find cover
for my brain
      my lungs
      my heart
I'd look elsewhere
in mens' department.
The place I find
everything I want.
In sizes that actually fit!

Even in colors that
make no sense.
Orange green & blue
Plaids on stripes
checkered polka dots
& spots, corduroy on
silk!!
Whatever is in style
won't look half
as right.

Whatever isn't, is a dream
waiting to happen.

  Teresa Costa__
PIECEMEAL ACCORD

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 __