Inflicting this disjunctive neonarrative
is not a bandwagon I hop on without a pogo stick.
Flip on the proto-hippo, shut off the monitor.
Dolores and June’s inevitable jobsearch.
This apartment is exhausting. In it we have the most
stress-relieving panic attacks or something.
Fourteen years ago I put on my glasses
and wait for him at Chow. [Picture this trip]
Now I accept your meeting planner. I give mine
to the Spirit and the Spirit accepts it, and in return
I get a cup of minestrone.
I walk down 20th or whatever. An ice cube with a picture of us inside of it.
Finally, we’re in the Garden of Eden.
