Accosted by one hundred three hairbrushes as he was getting off the train, our hero

The good detective in the orange coat suffered the rain on his trousers like hot coffee.

An octopus had hired him to solve the only crime available to the knowledge of the octopus: a soup vendor had lost his gloves

In the Paramount hotel, and letters were blowing across the continent

Like leaves in an Andean village. Some think

My pipe is deeper than my jaw, but they don’t know that my heart is the home of the only sunset the snowman ever sees.

Tonight, on the golf course, the ghost of Sonny Bono

Tees up for its final game. No shirts, no shoes,

No service and definitely no credit. They’d

Told the Loch Ness Monster and Sasquatch they’d have to get out the same thumb as Sonny

When their credit card cancellation notices blew in.

Unlike some fractured establishments, in the clubhouse you can’t dance for your drinks.

Now for the truth about this poem: It was written by a man with no teeth. Through

The screen door I heard him intoning into his jug and transcribed every word.

Across the assembled picnic tables, a cheese sandwich is calling for you.

The tomato is as ripe as the vulvas of the milkmaids

As they wade into the Ganges. Sharecroppers

And farmers in general would like to pick up the thread of our conversation where we left off.

It is their stern belief that behind every Tibetan war memorial a demon cow is waiting.

If they knew what you told me behind the latrine, well, we’d all be in trouble now.

Green flowers and red flowers. Blue and yellow flowers. A white flower. A flower that is

Mostly white but whose throat is dark purple.

Do not think I can not see you hiding behind those flowers. I have brought you

Something cool to drink, here in our barrio.

You kiss my arm like a motorcade.

You squeeze the contents of a lemon into my vulva. At the top of the Eiffel Tower

Our dreams of sewing a house together will finally come alive!