Ate orange.

Legs stained... stains turn into fur patches... fur patches turn into puma hide ...palaver re escape route... boy’s lips... chicken feather along outer perimeter of lower redder one, with up-and-down wrinkles... too much pursing... spooky profiles peer sideways on high-rise balconies... just dummies so the gov’t’ll think everyone’s home.



More palaver: ante-bellum. One lays one’s smock on the griffin. Siesta after a Technician Feast of foie gras, washed down with Grapette. Siesta leaning against the Michelangelo Adam-cold muscles against which one rubs-no guards to be afraid of. Gosh, how did they trundle them here? Via those new erosion lines, along the orange-red rivulets coursing beside the highway. Clump of bad-mannered executives from the south, i.e., “north” by your mental gymnastics, but a fresh new north, full of fresh new... executives... from even further north... they really model themselves on penguins...experts at survival... waiting under trees with leaves that hang down like exhausted elephant ears, waiting for the rain to stop so they can motion for the flotilla disguised as a parrot parade float, with its ack-ack measles pellets that sound like someone sticking a stone teat. Ack-ack! Ack-ack!