by Ross Robbins

I am become   once the sleep comes on
a sort of color-taster, see, I know no 
limit to the potato chip essence drawn
upon a song tonight at a show, so,
so surprised was I to feel a feeling thus:
               “Why’s this happening to us?“What I meant to say was this:
It hit my brain like a toothy kiss
when the man at the mic split
his mouth in a grin and wasted
air on spilling words that hit
my ear with a smelly tasteNo, no, I haven’t made it clear:
It was as if all of Frito Lay
spilled its salt across my nose
hissing, “Eat it, you fucking queer.
Try for once, to just straight say
what you mean, rather than compose.”

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