Marty, the Word Butcher, had a tattoo of Dmitri Pushkin on his forearm. His apron was stained with rotting similes.
What's good this week big guy, I asked.
Five haikus for a buck, he shot back. I shook my head. Got a year's worth of those. Got any sonnets? Last time you didn't trim the fat and I rambled at an open mike. He looked offended. I sell lean prose, fella. No fat.
Well, this is poetry and flabby syntax doesn't get it.
I got a bad shipment, Lenny. But if you're looking for tasty anecdotes...
Are they fresh?
In my freezer as we speak. I shrugged. Anecdotes are so 1988. Gimme a dozen limericks, no topping, preferably English. Hold the punctuation. And slice them thin. This is a sensitive group with delicate pallets.
Lenny, you're trying to be Bukowski and I told you they can't digest that stuff before 10PM.
I grabbed my limericks wrapped in wax paper and left the place, muttering eat my vowels. The problem with audiences today is they never chew slowly and savor the images. Thinking about my latest poem, my mouth started to water. What to wash it down with? Something Irish.
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