Bob can eat anything, he has iron castanets.
Baby, you have the Swedish pussy.
And then we’re going to rub her back on Main Street.
I’m afraid we’ll have to put her out of her symmetry.
I could have been a bartender, I could have been
your buddy, my head on your rump, pass the ham.
I’d like to wake up Carl, at 7 am. Cramps.
You’re so plain, you probably sink like stones
in the fountain. Mashed potatoes, they’re so glam.
My name is enema, and this is the plan.
Cream soda for the lover in your flies.
Fuck! Charles Ives. And Jessica Tandy.
Bells and little nether inches. The creosote
leather instance of international time.
We weep for the lost thongs, on yonder golden shore.
Blue shadows stain the sliding room carpets.
Pale see-though blouses on prize-winning hogs.
Men and women and cuts of meat in tiny shoes.
Let it snow, then, between your thighs,
when the screaming lets out from this guy.
Yellow is the color of my true love’s spectacles.
Be at peace, my lazy river. My newborn swallow
in the medium distance of these blossoming trees,
oh my lucky cod. Oh my loosening pants. This
winter. With six yards of rain on the ground.
Photograph by Jose Padua