July Poem 14

Pliny the younger pulled three puffs of help.

He reached into the pockets of time

And burned his lips: the heat, a staple gun

On a second son. The joint was very small before

He gave up auditioning artists.


Aristotle’s poetic third who in himself thought

He found that the PPP inhaled deep cherry

To be called Trompe-l’oeil was actually a joint

Between the high wave that rose up in him

As time passed his lungs ached

Worse than a brush cam at night.


Melvin took the joint, put it to the wind,

And picked up the strands of the old man

That hit him as a full cone of light

Where some tree into Aristotle

As if he’d never decree that an end

Of the Ten Commandments should have

Burned bright from here

And just above Stan’s mouth.


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