Zombie Country Pulpit

Wearing number three with ribs
mm-mm
some falls off some gets got

looky looky numbers collected
to the Cinnabon
for the toll taker’s left overs

some soft serve soft bits
gets the puddlings, some slip

from the hilltops surround the mall

and busted open atrium
thin rain fizzles to stem up the odors

hail thee prince of pride, hail down
some froze rocks and tonka-tonk

some loppers tumble to gaps glacial
closers,
give us this glip our daily sludge

we mumble into halves
get some big ole hats

just for being here for the very last one,
bath and body works
ironies alone
near Perfumania which tickles
atmospheres around the wandering
limb chawers,
spit slips out now
no reason to be offended

no more a deceiver, we’re home lord
Anne Taylor, Lord and Taylor

Six feet up, escalators still tearing

Welcome the pulp to the pulpit.