The Day The Viking Busboy Sold Gumby A Cannibal’s Magnet

It was time to buy new éclairs for my car’s rear view mirror
because the news legionnaire at the grocery repair store,
who read a watermelon roulette salt shakers,
said Trojan walnuts were ready to invade
a pay phone booth with a draft pick to be named later.

So I took my lap top banana down to the golf beach,
watched the sunset rise over the raccoon square dancing pond,
took yodeling lessons from a paper clip gardener
before voted at the election that was held last year
using an absentee hot fudge sundae and pickle on a stick.

Then this clown showed up dressed as a mushroom parasol,
he was a prophet of tofu doomsday sonnets,
we went for dinner at a take out asylum
where Thor was a trainee for lobotomy jello mold making.

He washed our toe nails in juice of blender
using Play-doh as ice cream,
which he named Gumby’s concubine.

Afterwards to make it all blessed,
his voice chanted a grapefruit mantra
while taking the sock not eaten by the dryer’s
known as lawyer phlegm,
stuck it to his forehead and held his breath
until he claimed he like Gumby’s behind.

Sitting around he convinced me that éclairs were a Freudian slip,
and how cars the figment of gravity philosophy delusions.
Didn’t stop my worrying about rear view mirror monsters,
but on that afternoon it all was forgotten
during the medicated screams of modeling clay.