Will research tell us tomorrow
of normal morals? Take a Brooklyn family
in fracture mode, vivid,
energizing, throbs to the earlobes. Thanks
to a snakeskin toupee, my grayish push boots
exhale new patina/prestige. Exeunt the Kardashians.
Exit the emergency room. A nifty looking broad
goes up to a goofy guy. (There’s the leader with its bow.)
Well, I wouldn’t do it instantly. I’ll bring you some,
uh, and well I’m dried.

Antique mud wrestlers shape up
for the last time, no scuttling of vain things
left undone. When you get back I’ll just
hit another menu, safe as a can of soup
in a mini-mart.
Saw you first on Masterpiece Theater.
I used to climb right in. That was funny yet unbidden.
When you were alive they called him a stooge.
My voice to young adolescents is like, whom d’ya know,
hiding their accomplishments in bread?

Will keep on looking for birds of prey.
Sunbonnet Sue ought to be learning/lurking
flinging bridges across enormous spaces, the way
the Druids did. Perhaps Ottomans, now
that they’ve shrunk.
Mine’s the control and I must deal with it.
Had a little discussion, benches throughout for safety.

We walked all the way here in the eighteenth century.
Century of closures! I’m not sure of that though.
Begin marinating and be out of here a whole bunch.
O melted butter! The devalued son looks up other people’s
calisthenics, like that’s going to change anything,
close himself to waking up, bodies not noticed.
As for the father, well, he’ll become hybrid, like most of us,
who you walk along in grayness, against.

The salt has lost its savior.
J’accuse.