She bought it because her baseball player didn't want her to,
because her playwright and her President and her Attorney
General disapproved. You're a star, they said—the one

“Papaya.” Waterfalls. Flowers. Clear blue seas. Lush islands where it was always 80, and no one got sick. Where women were beautiful, gentle, obliging.

Last night, sensing the signs, Australia’s long-
time light-welterweight champ Kostya Tszyu 
threw in the towel on his last title fight

It’s said they started in beach sand,
but now it’s Gobi, Sahara, Mojave grit
the fish sift through their gills, absorbing 

   I used to want to make sense. Then I wanted not to make sense. Now I want only to say something not stupid.

While asleep, a man gives birth to an idea of a woman. He wakes and finds it curled comfortably against him.

Nothing will budge it. Not hot water. Not detergent. Not scraping with a steak knife. It stands firm—a thick, chalky scum blanketing the glass-bottom, glowering threats of foul taste and disease.

It pinks the cheeks of speech, or flushes the forehead.
It’s a spring breeze in which words play, a scorching sun
that burns them red, slate clouds that cover them in ice.

If the generation wither

twinkling slinky, our of which

how should I

I am being forcibly retained in the land of no repute. Here all the chiefs of staff are too punch drunk to drop bombs on anyone. Liberation is passé for all except a few debutantes who have put their ostrich feathers in mothballs.