B is for big deal. Q is for up.

Ken Sparling

There was a guy on my coffee cup who said things to me. Smelly things.

The little ones should fuck off, he told me. They scratch at the lower parts, reminding us again of Hell, which is where the lower parts go, with heaven reserved for the parts above the armpits but not the smelly mouth.

I was God. God was this guy, Wally Parknow, who owns Wally Parknow’s Bagel and Deli. Wally Parknow was this other guy,Trevor Heidleburg. I don’t know what Trevor does. Trevor Heidleburg was Heidi Heidleburg, and Heidi Heidleburg was a dog named Pinky – no last name.

Snow fell on Mom as she stood on Moon #7, by the shed, shedding.

Thing one, for instance: Jack Spade, landmark guy, boutique owner, is married to a handbag. Designer: Kate Spade.

Some of Ira’s poems are nothing. Others are longish.

Latest thing: Littlest Prince – littler than Little, but bigger than his heart.

Twenty minutes spent on dark-haired Delia. Something red. A fox. Once again going to the shoe stores.

Dolly hung a cloud from Giggles’ hand. The sky fell grey in shreds. One white cloud hurried by, lost.

Wait for it, Giggles. When it comes, we will drown ten places where we already were.

Full of white promise, he would change us into different foods.

Giggles?

Slice our lives anew, till we realize that the place we’re headed now will never quite do.

I keep thinking about sleep. I have visions of lawn chairs.

     I leave the bedroom window open. It is the only hope I have. The air from some far off place comes in through the bedroom window and kisses me gently on my naked ass.