Life Without Rondo
Recordings made when no
one's there, that's what we like.
Too many scraps full of pockets.
We agree, but clause. Always.
A punk rock lunch on sidewalk,
stakesters plummeting from
condimental tips. I'm implying
for jobs by writing you, despite
your sounding Beatles-chafed
echoes of phone aroma carolina
gold. We like it when I writes, not
when we make type. Wondering
where John calls home for brief
bio scrubs on the, the web. "In a bow,
dad." Right. I knew that cadence
picked me up somewhere. It, like
McDonald's, is coming off. Service
interruptions, we like those triple
bonus mattress sales a lot. Bonus
is a filthy excuse for a word, words.
That's why we torched Jared. It's not
enough to know what things mean
beaten off to the side, fool. Sometimes
you gotta know what things don't mean.
From Something for Everybody. Copyright © 2018 by Anselm Berrigan. Used with the permission of Wave Books.