Will the willow borrow
The fruit of the moon for car money?
—Jordan Davis
I got a moon
for your wheelbarrow.
Shanghai chicken in the
sky with white stripes,
highways all night.
Gavin is a Libra, too.
An awkward hug
on glamorous dusks,
his brain exploded.
It was Spicer.
The bus, no money,
the saké, the wonder.
Like jumbo buffalo wings
nearly bleeding to death.
I remembered creative.
Orange yarn everywhere,
the boss with a big
smile on his face.
Boats blow through;
big tugs. My brain
of wild willow
afterwards,
no money nor death.
Just a blue fan in the face.
A severe lotion for
age reduction and
pleasure. A quick
survey. You don’t
have to move.
I got fate and a
ball separator,
my glam bane.
Good night, Sweet.
You’ll bring a
variety of
dressings.
