A kingfisher on the wires, a
dead pig by the side of the road.
"Such a bellicose armada," says
my mother as she pauses between
apoplexy & Appalachia, to smoke
another contretemps, & wait for
the next epiphany to roll around.
I am wearing a soft cashmere sweater —
ocelots try to hide behind my eyes.
I am wearing a Model T Ford magneto —
Vesuvius erupts & buries Pompeii.
I am wearing gloves & the touchscreen is unresponsive —
I'm not quite Imelda Marcos, but the comparison has been made.
I am wearing the minute hand of an Audemars Piguet watch —
demagogues accuse me of being soft on slavery.
I am wearing old clothes this Chinese New Year —
from where I sit, "antipodean culture" seems like an oxymoron.
I am wearing an account manager with a colorful fashion sense —
my cellphone rings, & illustrates the concept of mortality.
I am wearing a spearmint velvet blazer as a marker for intelligence —
later I will walk down to the lagoon to look for the pelicans.
Complete & unabridged
gene expression patterns
sit close together under
a shade tree. Pyramidal
when young, but with
obvious age-related alter-
ation over time, they meet
the requisites in any lang-
uage when a need to
demonstrate the use in a
sentence of the phrase in the
sequestered pergola is required.
Lollipop-men curdle the sky. Else-
where anchovies, but smaller than
the prototype. In a moment of
impetuosity, the Sage claimed
the desert was his friend. Went
out into it, was never seen again.
Interior masculinity is a trans-
lucent pale green according
to new noninvasive imaging
technologies. In other words,
turn the flesh inside out & it's
basically crabapples. Common
in gardens & parks, desirability
dependent on the color of light
that is transmitted & the luster
of the fiber used in its packaging.
Then the afters come in to play—
getting it home can be expensive.