The gun echoes through the doorways, retrovoom and downtrodden
hooves shed the dirt, hunger snorting the tendency and ready
halting, for a split second.
Capes coating their eyes, coats from the closet, a hidden closet
it goes places imperceptible, like the horses, ride ride ride.
Forever the hooves hawling the dirt — running — away or to you? Don’t open the gate,
secure all guarding edges; It’s the latter which is expired before the opening to catch
Pop pop pop like a can of coke the exploding “crisis” cannot scare the connector to
the hooves. The dirt, it chokes on construction-paper capes. Rainbows swirling, oh, the capes: like the fizz tickles up your nose, always keep it distant.
Round 2, oops, lap 2. The whistle cracks. According to my neighbor, I’’m new
at this. Clomp clomp clomping hooves, flowing flowing flowing capes, covered
eyes. Poor pasteurized beasts, it’s the race for your infinite win.
Survive, take the turn, dig deeper, stomping out the brokenness.
Their quinceanera sill is perched where the ribbons dangle, part of the brailing complete with communipaw hair. Do you see it? God must have placed it there.
God, hooves accompaniment of nothing, except, nature. An organic speed
at ordinary velocity permeates a race ahead.
Stay in place.
Launched for play.
Round round round they go trollopping the weedless trails, crazed by non-meaning production
value. Money money money reigns. Trop trop trop through their laughter and focus on the doorways to Kmart.
Redemption—do you know about the killings? Is it twice a day around the weedless trails, round they galloptrop their hooves. Expendable, dying.
A Cobb Salad is delivered to Janet Green.
A bottle of champaign overflows; the flowpop, gallop and overabundant.
The end is near, Sugar Bowl has taken the lead; yes, yes.
Now the corpse needs a hearing aide. The cricket cries, Milady. Looking beautiful
but biassed, a remote Mr. Droppings. A tyranny of a buttkisser and continues to
litter the weedless trails, wandering out to the uncleared landscape. Hysterical recognition.
Kitty Jackson pulled out askew suitors. Gaudy sill, gaudy brailing. The, “Super Box,” Miss
Kitty Jackson wharls past, splitting monsters, grinding dirt, spraying litter.