The upskirts at the end of Rasmussen St.,
flaring at all corners,
scouring the asphalt for an outlet or extra cord
between the feet and several thumbs of a file of mourners.
There are still lighthouses, at least a few,with beaver scraps on the floor:some undeniably useful tools.My eyes turned bad at looking at wordswhen they took my visa away in Antwerp.I was 0–10 in not screwing upright up to your Mexican restaurant seizure.
You could see him over there; any one could do it.
The night creeping around the floor accelerates.
Speaking in tongues; the sun got up and dressed.
She had three monitors, like all crustaceans,
Under clouds and the moon during the day.
The windows didn’t open due to ancient paint,
But her hand twisted the latch at every angle.
They were all over the place:
homeless people who played by the rules. The advice
leaked out of their pants onto attendants’ shoes, appropriately.
They clumped into a plot of data points
Never staycation, rats are overblown
By a YouTube channel with 70 views.
Kit-Kats, I was waylaid with a bunch of British coins
He emptied the vacuum cleaner and felt really good about himself.
He sat in the corner of a schoolhouse (not a school, you jackass).
He could see infrared bumble bees and their respective pollen.
Badly tick-covered, like a Life Saver in the mulch,
A guy in a box and myself dusted off down to our cuffs.
The cameras were all secure up in the trees — weird surveillance.
What are you up to?
I saw you in Mongolia
and remembered someone I offended.
A lot of people have the same name,
but that was her name; the same
OB/GYN
It’s racist to do sand divination, iron out time in an amygdaloid
Even if they’re all in your head. “My job is not to talk,”
Says a skeleton to some followers in the dust.