I think of you often Mona and Iris and Tiffany
in the justlings of the world
I have taken the golden boy’s virginity
a daughter of early puberty
I’m in love with the hands of my old best friends
a love intoned like a man who’s married
or a man with a steady
we are eating a name not our own
the triumphs of true feminine
to sleeve out when she comes in
skipping ropes on Carr Street
poems written in lipstick for a mystic
move away to another state
and then you’ll write a poem
with an old bottle of coco butter
our incarnations like so many BBQs
jerka oh nosa and the smell of Pernod
freeze freebie
William May forthwith with Angie Decola
we have eaten with our foot on the gas
too early for whiskey too late for the rocking chair
mint juelps on my chin
all that bad grammar like banjo Joe
maybe I’m slinging country
to hold a steel bowel I have it loosely like
old bull lee on the ribs
a pinata of old flames
I wanna give to you so hard
light anoints me the sex toys
cutting off the motor and floating it
I am a wonderful woman in jeans
a ripped leather
little tinkering doodle bell
I’m on star search
at the centre of this music box
a wingless bird like a prophet descended from
clouds or a chinese jacket
we’ve dubbed it the wet dishcloth
buffed up for Dante
is this a ghost or your ghost?
I suppose it’s a phone
it is not a meme
pass the cookie dough
the ferry is cancelled
a little creature drops into my lap
a lightning bug has crash landed
moon faced by television
racked up and licked
an orgy of worms
spring and all that
we must have kissed a hundred times
a cicada has landed on my pa tay ta
we’ll sort you out down under
an anywhere road for anywhere anyhow
I am ready to leave or get thrown out
a car is spinning around the bluff
the supreme being of elephants
I’ve bought it at Krispy Kremes
no hey a tart over the tea waves
sing into my little horny box
the real white stripes
kudzu or herbatka
now it’s duze password French entry
all the eyes all the tails
sing into my little horny box
beef tacos hard or soft behind St. Mary’s
what has happened to his thumb
it’s went swimming with her loins
running on nuthin but tongues
at the Old Town Draught House
we come mid-week after workshop
bashful loving feelings
Fred Chappell is the mid-quest
I have eaten his cake
we are speaking to a recorded voice
for a pre-determined number of minutes
his hair made him bigger than my problems
wag and mosey wag and mosey
gone over the horizon
twice as fast as we had hoped for