A lizard flicks against the ground,

like: you saw right, I rock this clime.

A flat breakout pose to freeze his

break dance--scales popping like a

Queens fruit stand.

Scimming the brickwall of a Garden

Complex, whose plants were chosen

by a Board's retirees with hospice blues.

Hail-chaff sun drinking ***** with

desert abandon, lopsided kiddie pools

bungling shallows.

As the laying of blacktop gets behind the

sun.

Sunday ******* popped into

his head.

He had to write about a:

Sunday ******* & didn't know why.

While rain showed streets photos of

itself--he thought about a

Sunday *******.

It was already dark out when it popped

into his head, which made it more

interesting.

Then it came like it was always there,

it was Father's Day.

Already bored by the subconscious irony,

he pouted at the Sunday *******.

Monsters don't really evolve, their

horror does.

They don't find themselves thru fear.

One never thinks of them in embryonic

fluid, but pushed out of a bramble.

Unquestioned middle age.

Moving by way of unprocessed screams.

A mass that blocks the whole movie

screen, densifying epiphany.

A domestic situation in an abyss,

as record states what lives alone.

He tidies up places animals chose to die.

He was lost inside the currogated

dents of a water bottle, when he

realized fingers did the same to him.

Feeling that someone loved him for

the role, is when he became one.

The lingering concern

of perfume's inner distance.

The clapper of a black rose--

a deepsea downpour.

A submission graceful

enough, as not to have been.

Is when her scent's allayed,

rends those.