Matchbook Poem

The Game of Chess 

          will not end.

The Spaghetti

         spoiled

in the intestines

 

I make fire without

     particle

   move pieces

 without proper reason

 

One day the Queen will Die

and The King   – In Check.

 

The Game Over,

The Spaghetti Gone,

 

(all is well.)

Oh! Illiterate Me!

Its TRUE,  all meat slicing

recurring dreams

walking backwards 

towards the sharp circular

blade-

(don’t allow the fingers too close, there is an art to this)

be aware

that,

all pickle slinging

sausage grilling

bacon fat exfoliating

appearing, but not actually underage

females

are surely

without doubt

entirely illiterate

 

when you see one-

do not say the following words:

college

anthropology

or kerouac,

simply believe that

this person

knows

nothing

about nothing

but the correct

percentages

for sloppy

cabbage

salads

with

an

excess of 

slaw.