I happened upon this generator
while trailing bread crumbs deep into
the vast emptiness of online ennui.
Dubious, I entered my name.
A wake of portent sluiced instantly
down the screen. Deeply affected,
I could not shake the prescience:
Marinara being red was too obvious a sign.
Bare maid earn grin, while improper—
both politically and grammatically—
positively made me smile. And though
I’ve never been to an area barring denim
or read of an Indiana bra merger,
they certainly are no more atypical
than a hostler’s rare mane braiding technique.
Not that I concurred with everything, mind you.
There is, after all, something sordid
about Anna Reamer Brigid and
Armenian Bag Rider—like DVD titles
shelved behind seedy, vulgar curtains.
Equally offensive was the marriage
of the Arian German bride to her
That night I awoke from a vision
wherein I was being served
upon buttered crackers
paired with a costly wine
at the Anagram Brie Diner.
Consider the irony: A nightmare of
Beaujolais, stone wheat, margarine and brie!
Grappling this dreadful dream—drain
meager brain—I saw signs everywhere:
Bad inner marriage (I am divorced.)
Rabid anger remain (I repeat, I am divorced!)
Bare drag earn mini (But at what price? Or cost? Poor queen!)
Air bed near margin (Too ominous to consider.)
Like any brave gabardine mariner, I vowed to weather
this bitter storm of thought in tightly-woven garments—
the remainder bargain a mantra to ward off my anathema:
Drama rare in being. Drama rare in being. Drama rare in being.
But I have been infected, anagrams burning all around me.
Their charred remnants rise, not like a game bird near rain,
but instead like a murder of wrathful crows.
And they’ve eaten all my bread crumbs.