Inside ivory boxes you find mounds of pink like the nits on Josie’s face in 7th grade
When you stop at traffic lights you think of jungle juice sweat and smother your lips.
you are a sticky dime, but secondly you are a shiny coin which sounds like cutting when you drop it on linoleum and thirdly –
– only two humps on the beige duffel if you’re looking with eyes.
Limping in tiny spaces.
We’ll continue as long as there are squeezes of pulp, could you get the blender?
The pyramid on a tightrope
The Thursday afternoon spent in a refrigerator
The scorned voodoo on the side of the road
A sign reading:
Do not claim the gin if you spilt the wine
Maybe for a bite you’ll go to Sierra Leone, maybe not.
Sloppy seconds is always bad unless it’s a pistol with one bullet.
