Monday, November 05, 2012


Midsummer night.  Bloated stars wobble like
canceled sitcoms through the year-round blossoms.

I feel like I’ve been electrocuted by a plateful of
dessert.  Gesturing about wanting sexual adventure.

Questions coherently asking me what happened.
Telling me about how I’m no longer visible

in future’s collision, stalling right before impact.
A psychiatrist to the stars, I’m finally getting into

it.  You have a messed up heart makes me feel
subtle.  Busy this morning with names of girlies.

Off-work hours my side is worsening.  I believe
honesty is the hot section but will know more on

Friday.  And keep the channel open is not a great
name for a crowded brothel.  They’ve shut me

into a scanner to get scanned.  Or is it the other
way around?  Bomb simple wants into week

until weekend.  Fortune rending kitchens in
the out of doors at four-thirty in the morning.