AUDIO
I am crouching
among paintings
at knee level that
hope to grow. (Not
electron ically fed.)
Swaddled in estimated
force. Trickle or treatise?
Water aflame? Thus far,
cranny vistas. Watch,
as you leave the gap, for
low planes. The bluebird
has a cruel sunburn, cannot
model today. They put a jacket
on her, & her arms couldn’t
fit the tuxedo. Can you fault
her for grab bing some limbo
freshener? But it’s too much to
ask a moon to drop a rope lad
der. Your monocle is laced with the
grief of one who fishes only for the sublime.
Aside from paying our own way through what
ever forest entails the grid, we are responsible for
having fun—perhaps the kind that smarts.
_____________________________
Plaid neighborhood.
I don’t have pants.
By the way, I
look like shit in
a costume. We got
ours at Dead,
Death, & Beyond.
Guess who was supposed
to be captain? Grace
is pudgy. She’s not a
model; she paid
them. My genes are
sticking to me. Tyranny
of the tacit decree? She
lost around 20, & I
shed about 4. Cadaverous
aspiration. Moral enemas
should be inexpensive when
administered early. We’ll do anything for
credit. All right, thanks: I might go shopping.
For a fully operative oxygen page.
