Pits

Ravenous

the drooping 

woman

in peach 

keeps chewing-

out

his secretary—

Oblivion

Liberally

shaded suburban

lane—or maybe

terrace—undulating

with

the unattended

sounds of treefrogs

buzzing and soft

hiss of big

backyard sprinker

systems still-

running

—both mindlessly

indicative of

another

on-

coming summer

rainstorm.

F of X

The second 

driver's 

most recent thought,

having been 

miraculously

unabstracted—and extended 

in space 

a good 

twelve city blocks— 

is now 

holding fast 

as the leading

cause 

of this pretty

shabby 

accident report.

Sucks to Your Ass-mar

Hail—itinerant 

summer reader!—for 

the 

only Lord

of gold-

backed flies you'll 

really see 

while 

out here hiking—is

this pretty

over-

populated

pile 

of fetid

ralphy dog shit.

Á La Mode

All around the

yawning Wicker

Park perimeter—such chic 

clouds of

blackbirds cluster—pecking 

for seemingly 

not more than a measly 

few seeds

among the 

fallen 

rotting mulberries—

and I'd 

like to stop and 

ask them—are you really

eating breakfast—or 

are you only 

dress-

rehearsing?

Sneeze, 800% Slower

Humid August

waves of

wind sweeping—the indefatigable

din of kids

play-

laughing and

itchy on the distant

and glinting

primary-

colored equipment—in

through her wide-

mouthed and

peregrine nose—where those

eyes and those

ears start to catch

swollen hold

and go—waltzing

away in

resounding

displays of mock-

sympathy.

Contrast

So 

far—this

August is like 

that little 

and 

gentle and 

white 

moth—alighting

just for a 

beat

on the cracked-

up and sun-

blasted slabs of old

blacktop—that is

to say—not easy

to notice

but simple 

enough to look at.