The frog made a squishing sound in my hand the sky opened up like a head of lettuce.
Like Stephen Hawking sorrow expanding like a rower's meticulous form.
The machine in a trance its metal arm swings.
The sounds of a shovel and now the work man and now the work man.
I wake up at eight I shoot the machine gun.
I electrocute the bumblebee.
Like a magnet like concrete the man's eyes were rotten two holes like a plug.
Like the meticulous design of a park a trash can.
Because of a peculiarity in spirit we might think about where we are.
I flick an insect off the bed.
Not like a bonnet pushed back a horde of neck and hands.
Like a true story a cow's eye.
I found my body pensive and motionless.
I found a hole in my sock I found a foot stool.
If I disappeared today tomorrow would you carry a picture of someone not here anymore?
Would you carry a Styrofoam cup to a trash can?
When I Was in Love with Nothing in Particular
What are the Pistons thinking?
The Pistons have lost their identity.
Walt Whitman found god in a barley corn.
She loved the sea.
The interviewer laughed and asked him to talk more.
"I can't find the enemy," he said.
"Is it alive?"
"Can I hold it?"
A Gorilla's hand.
A beautiful woman holds a can of beer.
I am what is around me.
Why are you crying?
"I reckon a feller needs a change of pace."
Even the snow plow gets cold.
We sat together.