The sky is a vulture trophy,
And on this morning the stomach gathers
around a vulture platter.
But of course you'd go digging
and you'd find something:

"I recognize that lazy Romanov walk,"
Arlyn called to me
as she jogged the short distance between
us on Prospect Park West.
West Hollywood may as well be Prospect Park today,
and I may as well be working the Brooklyn Museum of Art.
I may was well be a statue housed in the basement,
not a flower in the botanical garden,
or a Shel Silverstein poem.
She sent me an e-mail that read,
"Whatever happened to Justin Stone?"
And I never properly responded,
In part, because I do not know the answer.

The not-so-curious case of the dude who suddenly
had great difficulty putting the contact
into his left eye,
and who may have eaten a critical mass
of peanut butter, finally:

What I need is the equivalent
of a toothbrush and cleaning paste
for the interior of my body cavity,
we'll call it cavity paste,
a good lungbrush,
a most thorough cleansing.