By: Franklin Bruno
In any job that must be fun there is an element of dun.
Mezzotint badonkadonk, rolling a cocktail cherry in Motrin, crushed up coke-fine.
Don’t fire until you can see your reflection in the robot’s crotchplate.
The frenemy of my frenemy is my frenemy.
Earning your advanced degree in snackroeconomics.
The part I love: “I hate this part.”
Wears bowling shirt, has never bowled. Streaks in the aging filmmaker’s hair.
Spin of the frictionless cardstock chore wheel
Work-shirted poli-sci prof hosts three-hour bluegrass podcast.
An overlooked Motown Records songwriter.
“Do not sing to rain, poet, make it rain.”
His solos elliptically paraphrase his melodies.
Clarity and balance, not disorientation, were his artistic mainsprings.
Her chorines, molls, and paroled hookers know their onions.