She Saw Me Bite the Tail

Longtime ambassadors of the opportunity church walk into the square diner on the corner of streets named for exotic plants. Hair like ultraviolet phone cord, the sandwich person hangs on the metal tool rod and coughs a cordial greeting.

Under the maple table, a crowned child stuffs banned materials into the void cushion. The ambassadors ponder their parental surveys, increasing my understated glamour.

Reflected Poop Ball

Ice colored like cloudy fish soup squeaks between the garden orbs. There's a dead patch where a chair faded into clammy mist last September. When the neighbor smokes long on the step, I effortlessly ignore him, his orange blaze, his knife hat.

Your hair lingers in the drain.

Foggy Scissor Bottle

One mascot crimps the cosmetics while a second winds a line of dog ornaments around a synthetic column.

Watching, eating Oreo cookies, Mrs. Pool pranks haughty ass air on the stained porch. Old planks of shredded dough crack like dung boards invented accidentally. This is how an afternoon's leisures are forgiven.

Extra Powdered Sauce

A couple under a castle (or a bridge?) stoops down for hand cup water. Eyes to the worm cloud, he feels the same as a decaying vine lost to its roots. She forgets the only trap she ever fell for. They look through small tubes to find a communication from the contractors they hired to bend the incantations of their legal advisors.

Slash Cloud Gumbo

Flush like drizzling breakfast sauce, we climb deliberately up the limestone face, wind from the north wasting us one by one. As the crystal sap sings subsonic instructions to the sun, tattooed languages of hunger fade, with resurrected ache. Drained of desire, we submit and drop. We find a place of stasis.

Cola Pratfall

Cranky comic book brat curls her hair with dreadful creamed potion, sulking over the loss of another delicate companion. Her eyes braided, she swaps relics with a neighboring slipper-soled stick figure. Soon, the uncanny twitch will begin again and she will ooze into the office, knowledgeable but not sure. Not yet.

It's Tuesday in the Hot Barn

Soaked and poked with the tar prod, you conjure a sensation of shriveled lust. How glorious were the slappy twistings and livid palpitations of your years in service. Diagonal shadows on the tiles, wheezing whispers from under the door.

You are chapped here, stepping gingerly between the cardboard-shaped plant stumps in the courtyard. You think you can hear the rustle grind of bean parasites, but it may only be the ceiling fan.