Gila monster pain.
Gorilla isolation.
Living aside piranhas.
Asking a dear friend —
“If incomplete, do we have time?”
To see a lady: bejeweled, a small,
expensive purse, a chitzsu
hanging out.
I spoke religion, then science, she
looked and said, “That’s about
right.”
Gila monster healing.
Apes making it to town.
Societal hemorrhages.
I was entitled to diamonds. The genus
was scoundrels. Ashes and butts.
Cigarettes and wine. So young,
parents watching, what can they do?
Gooseberry sins. Gravidity
sensuality.
Pressured. All isn’t vanity.
Maple and oatmeal. Passion and
familiarity. It has to intensify.
A bowl of baked potatoes, butter,
sour cream, and bitter sorrow.
Serenity should be prose, all alone,
on
its merit.
The mirage was getting huge.
And the plants were typing.
