The Purpling

a poem by Nick Montfort

In some regions women, as they jog, wear shorts that display a large word over their ass, a word which sometimes, for reasons unbeknownst to me, is MENTOR. I'd like to, Nestor, but I hardly know her. Rather curious that forehead advertising hasn't taken off, but the gimme cap industry has proven itself a ruthless, effective machine. The fans at the game pulled off their shirts, painted their faces green, and scrawled the letters A R M Y on their chests. One of them went to get a beer from the cooler and caused the group to reenact a George Herbert poem. That T-shirt and G-string make for perfectly fetching attire — no need to buy a vowel. Every morning I look all over my body in case instructions are neatly tattooed here and there, but you can imagine what I find. "So was the concert good, cuties?" "Yeah." "What do the X's on your hands mean?" "That means we're minors." "Yeah? Looks like I'd better stick to the chips and salsa."