Issue 124, Fall 1992
Damn it Graw you’ve got the sponge
on the wrong side of the ketchup bottle.
Have not shithead. And thus we drift
like a loggering glacier
straightways into a century.
Hulk’s crocheted a tissue box cover.
I pasted the floral decals on the soap.
Hey HONEY how ’bout some TLC?
It’s only here beside the birdhouses
where Federica, Duchess of Ostheim,
plots in a pique, that the rotting birds re-
compose, assemble and then raise up
tailwards their bungling flocks.
Hester hadn’t asked for anything more than that.
Collecting the big change had knocked the
wind out of her, and the thurifer had forgotten
a light. Day in, day out, an
infernal crumpling and exhaling:
the hay field in sudden illumination
or a malicious wave from the booth.