To-day just got away from me. I spent a long time filling out a job application for Target with lots of redundant questions. It asked for my age at least five times. First it asked for my age, then it asked if I was 16 or 17, then it asked if I was 18, then it asked if I was under 40, and finally it asked for my age again.
I do hope I get some kind of job. Expenses keep cropping up. I had to get a binder for that all important loose leaf paper (sadly, there are no women in the binder), though I had filled up my old notebook anyway. Since I'm retiring it, here are some doodles from it, like my poetry they mirror the perplexity of my existence.
Twitter Sonnet #444
After toes have trundled on tricycles,
And God won't cut cantaloupe with a spoon,
There will be a chicken sale at Michael's,
And we will paint stripes on an old baboon.
When the bereft phantoms tally liquor
And the crimson wattles grow very wan.
Pink and gold shine the vote's cloudy sticker.
Various tall grocers gaze at the dawn.
After supercilious grass lingers
On the soil of minigun smugness
Horrified raincoats shrink on their hangers
And all knowledge comes to Eliot Ness.
Quantum dust condemns every self help book.
The final square is smashed by the red rook.
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