some atomic happiness is rising again
rotten inside, out, and back in again birds flock
maggots, leeches crawling sucking the corpse
bian the chi a ray o man food
That's te gardener finding a use for wild onion
Gone satanic
But the gumball men were not being funny when they won at Vegas
in their tiaras, hairy chests, beer-tanned
eagles
pointless.  Beak blunt by razor sky
yvette johnson
preambulatory sidewalk, unconvinced
that there are women in these windows or, for that matter, car alarms.
but the sound gets lost when we open our mouths
the flocked annuli, facing each other, would take in that rush
rafters, muzak, a pair of plastic garden geese
the children wear to scare grandmother into giving them gifts
Their masks are of pony hair, blubird wings and other naughty things
fortunately, everything is nothing
and nothingness exists only in everything you can see or breathe.
Nogoodnik. Conurbia. Mata Hari. Eleven in one blow
And one and twenty on the slab as the light begins to fail.
the dammit rock write up who, under albeit, makes pieces, gone
against--though how would the linguini gardener sense it, unless
he mistook the pitchfork for silverware, and ended up skewering
leaves like bright suns that ended in his hand