I’ll take a cold Genny please.
The congruence of mud and snow
No longer inspires. Hell, it no longer
Happens, as the blast of green heat
Pumps summer into snow drifts,
Causing yet another drought. Drought
On the eastern edge of the Great Lakes?
What next, Cobbs Hill orgies?
I’ll take a warm Genny please.
You know, the kind that causes
Flatulence. The salty home-brew
That sweats its way past bad neighbors,
Also delivers skunk-like ammunition.
You could fall off the earth here and
No one would know except for the
Smell that dying brings. Yup, they’d say,
He’s a Rochestarian, dig those Genny fumes.
I’ll take a hot Genny please.
Red hair, burning desire, and eyes,
Even though tearing up from the gasses,
That still sparkle with enthusiasm.
Do food prices matter? Are half
The bright prospects wilting, or already
Dead? Capitalize on this: the salt that
Oozes from Genny’s sweaty lips can still take
You away from the thought of earth, so
Toxic now that the Genesee doesn’t even
Count as dirty. Go ahead and taste her!
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1998. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.