A gay angel plays both sides in basketball,

moldy luggage in the head. Windshield wipers

splattering the brown vacuum with cotton swabs,

it doesn't really sound like the swirling of a crab

but like a math teacher's doll eyes its sparking

of painful red strap marks on the cactus makes

the latter simulate a sad loaf – this begs the question,

how does one compromise geometry with our sky?

It's gotten too close to said sky, whose tribal tattoo

curls smilingly. Beer barrels puzzle the void

without panic. Hurriedly strange cannibalism

still holds its sense of floating. Such plastic has

been lagging behind in the leprosy of our behemoth

sun's legless blinking, an energy, a central bank,

mired in life.