Holyoke! The Bambi Biennale.
Hypothetical moments in the
intellectual life of Southern
California.

All the faces interview themselves,
breathing in rhythms just short of
papoose.

Gordon masturbates Gordon. Her freckles
dim.

Dada Carew. New punctual stew. Stripes
raise a base's snare. Tahoe beware.

I, posture, take thee Edna, to be
Nadine.

Don't you have to, with a wife?
Not the picnickers. Not the sampan bagels,
or the curves in the core of Capri.
Perhaps one might in the great echoing
cigar of responsive canals.

But if so, hypertension blends with
bosoms so real. Tans on sides make
waves in proportion to Tuaca, too.

Take stock, served only to deepen a chasm
on haunches, puffed up by a queer wizard's
health system.

Thunderstruck billows wipe away the
heartsick gamelan. We gaze openly
at the closure, becoming aghast
genius.

It's serious, these legs of mantra,
lisping as thumping dares. Why shrink
back voluntarily when fat's so perplexing?

Thereby, thoroughbreds find the needy.
Farouk coming! Cunning Farouk.
Or . . . honk if you love honkies.

Reagan wastes aways. He butt-splices
Haig to lather. To fade his pupils.
That leaves that cataract stare.

Often machismo backfires, you see, creating
an interracial halitosis which summons
Hirohito.

Bastards bastards bastards. You might
seem uncompromising but you've worn
optimism out. Your toggery is baseness;
your jewelry your joint. Underneath
that jaunty high-hat lurks the gagged
isolation of Poopsie.

Aftermath basket glimpses cliche.
Sues aperture for breakfast.

All quaint poignancy aside, let's collect
her wits and knock on Egypt's drip.
Let's satisfy my need to say, 'Say,
she'd need my words.

Perhaps that was shy she spoiled Turin.
Pansy duty by the letter.
To take away.
To try to do today.