Friday, January 13, 2012


empty milk carton, I can foresee an
accident happening at night,
every night – in the night time

where there's evidence of a crash on
the floor – the yeti high five bumper sticker motif,
from a lump of egg fist

two weeks earlier, my mind-altering experience at Sea World:
a Fish & Chips puree, windy interstellar rhyme –
the conduct of the dolphin was excellent

who else but the goblin in the
ATM's armpit became unstuck at first wash
geographically, unloosened dirty sneaker footprints below

Velcro succumbed to nun-zilla –
a sort of nun but with her suspenders
turned upside down afforded her blades
a larger area coverage

not since the local sheriff dumped that claw
he'd found in a field into formaldehyde
and sat down and studied it while
thumbing his cheek with the foot of his chair

black ink colliding with the body's scaffolding
the fallout of mystic babbling – a fart that
blew away the butt cheek shadow puppets which
subsequently migrated to the dawn's dancing red curtain

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