Reacting to suddenness is generic. Sobbing because the face of God is dizzying. Buskin’ apocalyptic-folk with some friends all over the atlases. We sing for the unsung like an offshoot Tom Waits. Inflation? No problem; Montegos are much less than five bones. It’s chemically-boosted vocal enhancement.
If you expect nothing, disinterest is not mortifying. Transgressing the social queues. Charging toward desirable factuality. I feel like a renewed woman because I drank tap-water for a consecutive hour. Those who don’t slack off are the opprobrium’s bullseye.
Meet me at the dunes of Long Branch, where shells crack open Atlantic-flavored maroon. Squeeze my wrist like gunmetal. Meet me where we could flip the script without wussin’ out. The world is momentary. Defying static with the insatiable more. I am selfish & want you all. I am selfish & want you none.
Brooke Nicole Plummer jokingly applied for a clown college in Ohio, got accepted, then never heard from the staff again. She prefers solitude with Clara Schumann playing in the background over the cacophony of Pokémon GO community events, just as she prefers butterscotch coffee over ironing clothes for other events categorized as formalities. Her work has been published by Wordplay Anthology, Ursus Americanus, Twykenham Notes, (b)OINK, and others. She is currently working on her first chapbook, Flyover, Compiled Nothings.
