for Nikola Sop and W.H. Auden* Having never read the      original I can only guess the      content From its evocative      title. And what I guess is      this: First Astronaut:  “Hey,      man. “You seeing what I’m      seeing?” Second Astronaut: “that      all “depends.  You seeing a      rooster “in free-float?—comb      erect, “dignified as any space      rooster “that has likely ever      lived?” First Astronaut:  “That’s      it, “yeah.  Which, I’m glad      you “see that too. 

Sometimes when we touch, the honesty’s too much, but damn!– if I ain’t good…!

for S*tchel What a shame that this rosy-skinned fruit — spread thin over the sole of your tiny shoe by the weight of an airy toddler’s gambol—was not a plump Ortega grape. Because while daddy hates to mop, he does, in fact, love him some      wine!               —after lunch, April 6 ‘05

Were Dirty Harry a crazy leftist, that Scorpio fellow who hijacked the school bus would be out on parole now, eating flank steak & renting The Incredibles on      DVD.

Forty-six seconds softens an entire frozen butter stick: Bring on the Little neck      clams, brother!

Fetching the mail just now, I’m pretty sure I saw a homeless guy’s wang. Which is really odd, because ordinarily I have to pay, say, $5 for that particular        pleasure.

for Denver Broncos fans To me, the Super Bowl means spicy hot wings dunked in bleu cheese dressing, and summer sausage piled high atop cracked wheat crackers. Because Mike Shanahan fucking sucks, man.  Sucks! 

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside a moribund insurgency.

You can’t really doubt my superiority, can you? Please.  Get real. **** It’s not that I can’t hear you, buddy.  It’s that I choose to ignore you. **** AS A CITIZEN JOURNALIST, I DEMAND YOU BRING ME ONION RINGS! **** related:  “The Quite Specific Humility Poem”

for Lucy Hey!—just once let that goofy bald kid kick the football, would you, bitch?