by Larry Ziman
The chocolate cookie fiend
rushed into the chocolate cookery
as fast as a parking meter
swallowing a quarter as if
the intersection really cared
whether the lowrider raced
thru the light like an asteroid
crashing thru the atmosphere
of a gas-chamber bar teeming
with kooks of a stranger breed of
outlawed civilization domesticating
aliens from the inner space
of a psychopath’s neuron gap
hiding in the cleavage
of a Hollywood starlet
served with 20 chocolate cookies
and a pink paper napkin.
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