In The Roaring Shack Poem by delilah contrapunctal.... yes, that's how I intended to spell it.........

where the blots on this escutcheon bear a printmaker's autoclaved bootlaces...
clangorous and bottle-fed underlingerers float in the cherry swamp..bouyed and procrustean....with their scissor-legs and muted banjos calling for a broadsword and a half-liter..
.I would run but the milk thistle has stolen the pathogens...weary of cardamom, I blink before the feral froth....
encumbered by no narwhal's pegboard, he glides past and is enveloped by semiotics...
I always suspected the ramp was at an uncomfortably quizzical slant....that it has been confirmed is of little consequence.... and no beekeeper's handshake