chalk, dj ilium.

barfy barfy poke my eye
out of a worm hole, filthy sty.
ibbidy bibbidy eight course stay
corset, bored yet? holiday.

on the eighth floor, the
night snow has a long way to
float to the sidewalk.

a red mitten on
the street. chill fingers search the
lint in her pocket.

chicken fried turkey.

3 o'clock sunset:
digging chocolate chips out
of the ice cream box.

moustache bits litter
the sink, a razor blade on
the edge. dad lives here.

the suburbs make minds
fret over what to keep and
what to throw away.

when she's not looking,
he stuffs the trash can with a
porcelain swan-shaped vase.

she takes the trash to
the curb. the swan, salvaged, swims
on the garage shelf.

every bevery beetle cat
make me a town, flip-flop flat.
hominy, grits, pudding pie
evil weevil red tongue-tied.

eighty bumblers numblers gnat
knitting kittens into a hat.
how many sofas piled to the sky
will heed hum numbers outward guy?

small fry.

saving lives...millions
at a time. one more greasy
shrimp roll down my throat.

romanced by her own
voice, how she wants to make out
with the microphone.

opening the post
office box: a rush of wind,
blackness, and no mail.

vibration in my
pocket, palpitation in
my chest, flip open.

fat and transparent,
tell him your woes. priest in a
confessional, closed.

polyester butt
sweat, 12 to 8 am. an
apple in the car.

once in june

once in june did fly spots splat and
umber ochre brown at bat.
if ever slipper awesome high, then
eighteen junebugs in my eye.

when i am old and bejowled,
where will you be?
not on the back steps,
spitting watermelon seeds with me.

clitorati

do you have a mailing address? i have been meaning to mail you something since you came. how are you doing? are you living somewhere now? i hope so. i especially hope you are not living on your bike. did you read that nyt article a few weeks ago about how bicycle seats make men dysfunctional in the bedroom? well, not that they do any research on girl penises, but wouldn't it suck to be clitorally dysfunctional? watch out.