The electric blender
is crying as it spins
round and round and

the spilled milk is
making its way to
the edge of the

counter, while the
refrigerator hums its
solemn tune and

something pops up
in the toaster, charred
beyond recognition.

The answer: three.
Two to hold the
ladder, and one
to shoot the gun.

I’m sorry. I
was distracted.
So, what was
the question?

In this
world,

even a
simple

cherry
blossom

constitutes
a miracle.

That's not a
pencil, it’s a
brontosaurus.

I know I am, but
what are you?

Six out of seven
fabled dwarves
are not happy.

They ski down-hill
laughing absurdly,
madly, in sepia-tone,

like an old photo.
One says: ? The
other replies: !

They are judges.
The distant court
house looks small,

like a doll house.
A girl is on the
hill top, her eyes

glisten like a
policeman’s raincoat.
But she doesn’t exist

yet. One day she
will look you in
the eye and say: .

The tea
kettle
whistles

in the
kitchen.
Then all
is quiet.

A cloud
moves  
slightly

and the
room is
a little
brighter.

Even though
there is

nothing about
himself that

he likes, he
defends his

image like he
is singing

the final aria
in a tragic

Italian big
time opera.