We Sell Ice Here

Listen to what the tattoos that aren’t on my arms are saying

Club, club, cub

Aught, aught, evermore

Lachrymose mountains with headlines on top

That wire hanger has fallen over again

Conventional smells linger

Buttoned collars, buttoned bags

The center stomach uncoils and rises

She is no Elizabeth

He makes the face of a bull.

Something is changing even now

The lock bought, the lock locked.

Ghost of fireballs and carpeted walls

Primetime events insert, inserted

My nose overhears your nostalgia

I flush and flush all morning and walk the right of way.

Cotton jumps from boxes and coughs all night

Possessed of, anything whatever

Avant sleeping downs, the covered clothes canopy

We with either an “A” or “O”

and Mr. Buffalo, the self-propelled tightrope

One response to “We Sell Ice Here”

  1. Nice writing style. Looking forward to reading more from you.

    Chris Moran

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