Propitiation

Everything’s a substitution.

The burrito that’s on your tray

resembles regurgitation—

not the one you saw in the ad.

If you fell for it again, Barnum’s

selling a schooner in

the Mojave just for you.

 

The Dildos hit the stage

without the voice in the StubHub

clip. You shelled out seven

grand for seventh heaven—

its rush of front-row-centre.

Their tenor’s an octave lower

than profondo.

Makes John Lee Hooker sound

like Mr. Bill.

Destined for Les Acres d’Senokot.

And the cousin of the drummer’s

milkman? Now handles all the

hits. Bliss is an ignoramus

too drunk to dance.

 

It happens all the time. Ask the trout

who bites the bait. The sheep

that’s ever-fleeced

and garners nothing. A fan of the

Maple Leafs.

 

And the lavender I pick for love?

Shrivel while the vase is glutted.

Death upstages life—the very instant

your head has swivelled.

Watch Valentine

clubbed to pieces.

Quasimodo

thinning by the hour.

Moses—who fails

to set a foot in what the Realtor

swore was Holy.

 

There’s nothing to do but barter

the water for wine.

Quaff it to a stupor.

If it’s good enough for Christ,

who am I to spurn

such supplantation?

For even blood can pull a

wily bait-and-switch, there at

the end of a lance,

your feet pulled up from flames

you heard were flowers. 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

August 6, 2026

photograph: frantic00/iStock