Rodrigo Toscano

The New Bungledom

Now that your eye’s taste buds are pure plastic

Now that your word hog bender’s bellied up

Now that your ‘inner voice’ has been run out

Now that shrieking voids have you in tatters

Now you’re ready—for The New Bungledom

An essential state of being, a sufferance.

The New Bungledom’s like a teen hideout

But, from fifty years ago; let’s go there—

Here, nothing acquired wings, nothing took flight

Everything stood as it stood, all was fair.

The scrawls on the concrete remain, jumbled.

A mild attempt at de-jumbling, seems right

A strong effort at re-jumbling, seems right

A wild ass piss on all efforts, seems right.

Bulgarian Night

Turquoise lunar rings lighting up the bay

Adding intrigue to the quiet alleys

An occasional vespa bristling by—

Bulgarian night of the two agents

Nine bottles of pilsener, strewn overcoats

Breathing in unison, empires at war—

A crimson ring around the moon squinting

Tints the occasion with clanging import

Dossiers sifted, reshuffled—ordered

Satellite pics of the missile complex

“Dammit! I forgot the tickler condoms”

“What? You ‘forgot’? Or were made to forget?”

“No, don’t start, they’d never do that—to me”

“Ok. Who’s they?” “They? They’re the uh, the, um”

Let’s get enchiladas

“But is science, scientific?” she asked.

And that, was a different conversation.

Meanwhile, high-end enchiladas were served.

The sixth dimension of some universe,

A new drug that amps up underthinking,

And the machinations of a new plague,

Wholly out of her mind, “I mean, because

Science, its precepts, aren’t well understood,

Much less the societies they spring from.”

Meanwhile, a flute of blue mezcal was served.

AI cumbias from a pulsing jukebox,

A new drug that dampens overthinking,

Both firmly in her mind, “I mean, yeah, look

It’s all about—p’yeah, these beans are subpar.” 

Bywater Boho

If you cut those bangs just right, you’ll prosper.

If your cap’s flipped just a bit, you’ll prosper.

Those rain boots over tights—philosophize.

Those flannels—three in a row, legislate.

We thought garters couldn’t sprint. We were wrong.

We thought spiked belts couldn’t crawl. Wrong again.

That rack of orphaned vestments, kinda stinks.

That dummy in new attire, kinda winks.

If you think about it, black jeans scream death.

If you hanker pink shorts, you get lime socks.

A good three sport a lion’s mane to brunch.

A good twelve rock an invisible crown.

First time we peeped, your tail was on the backside.

Last time we peeped, it was on the frontside.

Down River

In procession, white swamp boots, ruby pants

Blue flannels, silver scarves, emerald skirts

Queen of all literature, and of the sea.

Dukes of dull mud and of the sheeniest.

Master of the revels! Pray you, help us

Remember to forget what we recall

Of these anxious years. Do us a songlet!

(The princess of drained out marshes, begs you).

“The isle”? “of the disappeared”, how now, bard

Have you nothing in the way of ripped shorts

Something of the soil of this place, or snakes?

“Black cloud thunder rumbling” that pleases well.

Pickups, pickups. The King’s ice chest? Light rain?

Light rain because IZ HOT? The hell. Ok.