Imp arm. Swung lightly.
Oof! Bite imp arm’s wiggle,
slightly. On Golden Gate.
Begin a fucked-up chat
then home a bottom.
Tried to run. Serious.
Four books and he was
on me. Too much hay.
One hour left.
Let’s go,
Vanity.
7 deadly
poets and
America’s
next top
model.
The doctor prescribed a
photo shoot. In your beard.
When you have to write.
Which was located at
Selected Poems. After a
zipper a walkabout. An
Australian walkabout.
For Nick,
who’s 20,
I bought a
tuna burger.
Growing a
beard (full).
