man makes no sense.
meat for meat
is an asian, slapping teeth upon
the other elitist congress adjourns in Hollywood
due to the collapse of stones
all the great white hopes
(certainly, money has a tongue) and the asian bites it
to a stick. and now, she has the mother power
of paper speech. poverty speaks
just as clearly.
its ears sag and bleed.
the paper knows what not to say,
such is the synthetic beauty of
rhetoric and the aroma of green (as opposed to the stink
of green) black edges in your pockets
the saving breath? if our dreams consist of
copper and corian alabaster kitchenettes. my man
is a bag of titanium clubs and garages of
roadsters and female pets.
but he promises: baby, you are my only chic. that, Mother,
is my aversion to the registry and
the pitter-patter. i reassure: you are perfect.
(you are delicate) so Mother,
you are superlative.
because the asian is not so gorgeous.
and the asian is not so tall.