Hard Shots from Close Range

There’s kind of a beatbox thing going on.
He took up a book but could not read.
He threw down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly.
‘Tis bitter cold/And I am sick at heart.
 
Called by The New York Times “a brooding sort”
Went home to be with the Lord.
But the place was boarded up.
Stents, three of them, consolation prize.
 
The only thing I can figure is
He tried and shouldn’t have
The river toad burger
With sweet potato fries.
 
The other biggest mistake that most people make is
Prayer flags singing off-key,
Canaries barking up the wrong tree.
How can it be wheat if it’s rice?
 
Maybe has that girl thing down.
Interrogating the cosmos.
But the range is off nominal
And doesn’t make up for the weakness of the strong attacks.
 
In today’s hyperconnected world.
The hardest partner rushes in.
A meme passes peacefully surrounded by family
If u ain’t in the hof u ain’t shit.
 
Is what the runways are saying.
Simply reinforcing what everybody already knows.
A sort of epiphany woven into contested space.
Forever wondering when you should tap.