Pigeons arrive at my window in leg braces.
The honey in our national defense
sticking to the data, quote unquote.
Someone needs to quarantine these results.
"Music is only politics if you're
tone deaf or have a conscience."
Neither of which is a problem if the air-conditioner
in the inherited Buick drones over
the Rachel Carlson tape. What sings
is quantifiable as the fingerprint of an actual dead
woman found in a linguistic toaster oven.
(At least the appliance received health care!)
Still, when the frigid quarters in our pockets
contemplate the new white plates
at the disco bowling alley of aquatic mistakes
it's as if every six years we were given a kazoo
so powerful it could blow brains into and out of position's
billowing wig.