Some young potato is talking about
a trip to California. Fat chance there are
several good poets in this place. I pick up a hamburger
and lose eleven pounds in an emergency seething.
Apparently this was the right amount. His house is very popular
but there are only two pickles. My eyes, you see. Funny
how I’m so enamored of him. Even his reflection of the
green bay looks good in the building that makes
bad reflections. The boats are at play. They frolic. Here he is
listening to a poem in the rain. Raindrops make him
hungry all day. I feel bad. Even guilty. So we step into
the sunshine from the movie equal parts
exhausted and elated. Mustard no
mayo. Vanilla milkshake. Let’s order another
pizza. Plug that speaker into your balls and then come over and we’ll eat it.
