Monday, September 10, 2012


The embolism makes it tricky for the horse.
A fat kid tentacle grabs
a slurry of mother brine.
The sun rides up to my neck
in placid floating gamma-ray tangles.
The fogging, willing cascade of Kent.
Hulk is cheap and dangerous.
Crochet deadening unto smoothie.
Netflix latches filthy bathrobe
on to lazy species with the remote's
compassionate cough in my hand.
Pussy eating the talking bin.
Then our house burned down
and the cinders inexorably sucked
the ruin whirly.
The community was absorbing.

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