Letters & histories, lovers & leftovers & livelihoods, lies & enemies & anomie, amphibian symphonies cresting with anapests crashed upon the rocky crags of spondees. My wife’s middle name is Pan. Pan’s only name is Pan. I like the global stretch of pan-. I like its involvement. I like that in radio communications “pan-pan” repeated thrice means that there’s an emergency, but not one from which there may be no survivors. “Pay attention now” is listed as a backronym. Pan, the genus of chimp, closest relative to humans. Peter Pan as the trickster who never grows up and into the old type of god. & above all of course the frying pan, sizzler of delectables. How many poems will I write as a Pan?
Or perhaps a play, with words linked like sausages, inked segues with kinks…
Ext. Dark DUMBO street near Brooklyn Navy Yard
A twink in gay gingham assuages a tween to rethink minks as blood lozenges, offer condolences for inchoate actions redolent of old-fashioned ways.
But anyways, eat your bacon, brother. That father of fifty likes fatties, not futures. You want work, better work it. Until you get on your feet you can crash at my place…
Hard to party if your body’s hardly ripe no more & portly as a pig nobody’d ever pork & would probably part with, Hardy.
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