the refrigerator is on my shoulder. a bird
the sign of a heartattack. he’s got
purple hair,
he says. cars honk and sneeze. there’s
a cool breeze, a pain in my shoulder
or beneath it (the sound of a lumber mill or an elevator).
a new 60-story building full of condominiums—
it only takes a few days to get it up.
ok, let’s say it’s a heartattack, then. and poodles
that bark past midnight, or so the story goes.
an upset stomach and a bowl of daisies.
migratory pornography. selective dishevelment.
run the bacon for twenty-four minutes. recover.
then he made me eat a lychee! well, it was boring—
he only had 4 gigs left. power back up the hill,
past the salon thru the Starbucks and under a jet:
sex and/or romance to calm the nerves;
a new habit involving right index finger
and lateral incisor (lower right).
