Not Exactly Cream-Colored Ponies
The laundry line. The plastic parabola: conjure up
the beaded vector, the 50-50, the satellite dish
with its gulp and stutter.
Two men hold hands, then 12 rows of nuns, a drummer.
When he was young, the driver ran reds. Please stop
beside the painted buffalo.
Gupta recommends his cousin, H1B and view of the Valley.
Roger's stuck on the Bay Bridge, Nordstrom ship above
his nipple, backup buttons.
I saw you knitting idle, idle. Looking for a change
in the face, the singed brow, the All's Clear.
The radiograph said she had some lead
in her head. I was her bodyguard moons before
she swooned off camera. We walked it off.
Pretty paradigm: upturned, all the shells were empty.
When we finally beat Rommel, he had enough sense
to take a few souvenirs.
You asked the man at the salmon farm and you, still
tasted like iron. Here's a meal: mussels up to
Yeah, over there. A little to the right.
Potbelly black, warm as toast. Your hands
up like surrender.