Thursday, May 17, 2012


Muscles.  Icicles.  Mise-en-scenes.
                            —Frank Kuenstler

The tabloids started drinking again,
trolling around for lays.  A wreath
came home and took a shower.  This

is the story of dearth.  They’d gotten over it
or worked it all out until the smooch-out
with a crush.  The wrecking ball was

slightly stunned by that one.  He kind of
creeps me out.  He’s a brand whore.
Can you listen to the checkbook

on my back?  I love his work, though,
moodwise.  I’m not always down.
In fact, I’m predominantly up.