Poem 62

When the great Boo Dada came down out of the sky on his flaming ballpoint race horse,

spouting his manifestos and commandments and memorandments and blog entry rambles,

i was in the toilet of a very dirty burger king on Lafayette road, across from the car dealership.

when i stumbled forth from the watery chasm of infectious surfaces i saw that my whopper had

imploded from the sheer force of proselytizing that had been done in the sky, and in the dining area.

i brought my desecrated burger to Mandy, the key manager on duty, and asked her for another.

she did not hear me, her ears were glued shut with the magic of the Boo Dada’s lyrical tirade.

so i asked the fry cook, Larry, but he was salting fries and enumerating the sainted of the Boo Dada.

finally, hungry and pissed right off, i jumped the counter, rifled through chicken and fries and junior whoppers

and grabbed my replacement whopper, so cleanly wrapped in it’s waxy paper, so warm from the lamps.

i sat again in the booth beneath the summer window heat, outside i saw that an apocalypse had broken out,

in the sky eagles and wolves fought, angry dead admonished their living survivors, explosions and plagues broke out

but i didn’t have a stake in the mayhem so i sipped my dr. pepper and unwrapped my almost 100% beef mana,

unfortunately it had pickles. i headed over to see if subway had survived the coming of the Boo Dada.


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