Battered gal’s ‘roid rage soothes the million dollar condors
and their lowly worm’s luscious cameltoe which,
like a vornado creampie in monkey sportswear,
emits a “cry of the soul” as radiant as the art of songs,
or the art of thongs, or three-pronged arguments
that wrap into the haunch of dead enthusiasm rapt
in henna, terracotta, and polyurethane like a swizzle stick
in the (e)urethra of the truly bored. So strike up the sarod,
fellas, and wiggle your fngers on the skins, drummer boys.
Like you, I hear it all technically, a mountain of rouge
on a pale imitation, wallowing in the anemic spirit of time.
Call me e-mail — call me anything — but call me.
The process was interrupted by an abrupt allocution:
“I don’t want you to conceal anything.”