Right on Roosevelt
Adenoidal eloquence dispensed
in grog of toodle-oo’s. Christian
burial in dirty work absolving
tennis elbow in the door. A
trail mix of banter and brawn.
Fundament in the cleats, strode
the plank to pass act three of
congress. A popular treat in
1902. Sandwiched stood to
ridicule the saint of teflon
leanings. Muleskinner.
Refrigerated acolyte. An
extenuated leg, other foot.
Tongue sponged taffy drooler
made to think in threes. A
saga. Feeble as feasible in the
interstellar. But not here, the
people clamored. Radical
lounged. As I saw. I swam.
The gracing of participles
with nothing to wear. The
versions vary according
unwanted guests. As the
immensities are porous. A
tyranny of footprints left to
wander aimlessly. Polygamists
fudging with bombshells. A
respite spelled in looking
elsewhere. Not where. The
where else can you make your
mark of Cain. If not muted
screaming tuning the piano
to the key to the city. A balm.
Another glory. A handsome
toad. The view is everything
you said it wouldn’t matter.
Whether or knotted they come.
To glide over the dance floor
of who I am. Not an avenue.
Strudel tossing pig farmers
marginalizing the infinity of inner
space. Approximate consuming.
But far be it. Go to it. The
ponder-able prairies stippled with
mugshots of pioneers, gracing wet
willies of the wisp with a name so
common it sleeps on the tongue of
a tourist. A circuitously fastest way
possible to rend a tale inert. A
caught betwixt. Friction’s escort.
Dump and dollar down on the pony
in red. The ephemera will still be
here in the morning.
View all poems by Philip Byron Oakes
in grog of toodle-oo’s. Christian
burial in dirty work absolving
tennis elbow in the door. A
trail mix of banter and brawn.
Fundament in the cleats, strode
the plank to pass act three of
congress. A popular treat in
1902. Sandwiched stood to
ridicule the saint of teflon
leanings. Muleskinner.
Refrigerated acolyte. An
extenuated leg, other foot.
Tongue sponged taffy drooler
made to think in threes. A
saga. Feeble as feasible in the
interstellar. But not here, the
people clamored. Radical
lounged. As I saw. I swam.
The gracing of participles
with nothing to wear. The
versions vary according
unwanted guests. As the
immensities are porous. A
tyranny of footprints left to
wander aimlessly. Polygamists
fudging with bombshells. A
respite spelled in looking
elsewhere. Not where. The
where else can you make your
mark of Cain. If not muted
screaming tuning the piano
to the key to the city. A balm.
Another glory. A handsome
toad. The view is everything
you said it wouldn’t matter.
Whether or knotted they come.
To glide over the dance floor
of who I am. Not an avenue.
Strudel tossing pig farmers
marginalizing the infinity of inner
space. Approximate consuming.
But far be it. Go to it. The
ponder-able prairies stippled with
mugshots of pioneers, gracing wet
willies of the wisp with a name so
common it sleeps on the tongue of
a tourist. A circuitously fastest way
possible to rend a tale inert. A
caught betwixt. Friction’s escort.
Dump and dollar down on the pony
in red. The ephemera will still be
here in the morning.
Philip Byron Oakes
View all poems by Philip Byron Oakes