Zero is at the laboratory and I’m sitting here with the salt
and pepper shakers trying to figure out his bowl of fruit.
All the mail is sorted into its various bins. One haiku
and a bookshelf of the movie that somebody loves with a
handlebar moustache is wilting on the stovetop next to the
pink flyswatter. Hanging under the snake-plant is a cigar-
box lid and its trolleycar cruising the dog-loving couples. He
feels the red pills drying inside of his gut. Who’s given him
the police car from Italy, lately? If it were indeed Martini-Man,
suffice it to say the feeling would be a-okay. But intimacy isn’t
something you simply tangle into your shoelaces like burrs.
It’s big-named [moviestars] who are in line with this red-carpet
feeling of getting there before the other hungry elephants.
We must yet beat that dim spotlight onto the last of the apples.
