Something came to mind this morning:
a pudding esplanade.
I laid on the couch, closed
my eyes, and saw it as an advertisement.
Later, manning the vacant horseshoe
supply shop I can't help but
think of horseshoes.
Thoughts of famous Dutch hermits
who might've been frauds;
various memories in cardboard;
someone's greasy thumbprints on
my Whopper; the vet's cologne
a week later on the dog's collar.
I close my eyes again…
she comes into my office.
She has a beautiful wooden ear.
I have heard about it.
Brush the hair from my eyes, I
have let a bowlcut get
out of hand.
Idea for Sigourney Weaver tombstone:
“You saw my panties in Alien.”
Back on the couch, my face in
the cushions, where I see myself
handling money, cautiously—
opening each bill and smoothing it flat
in the palm of my hand.
The bills smell like sharkskin,
shake like monster celebrity b**bs.
You can't leave it to me to describe your world.