Pictures of my feathered friends and a poem


he sits, with a pro-staff 3 golfball, a sprig of fresh rosemary and a cup of matcha tea.
The train does not move.
in-directly the stars spiral
into the upper recesses of his gong tower.
the tall tale teller quivers slightly
like a 30 foot tall giant bamboo in a wind burst.
the air is hot, the smell of his zapatista scarf Sweet
and Succulent,
a scent which ignites the
“I want to make love to myself”
voice deep in his being.
You have no idea.
Intrinsically quizzical bronze monkeys cluster around his brain,
dancing and squirting thin streams of liquid gold.
he smiles.
his golf ball falls off the table and rolls over to the fancy chair’s
wooden leg.

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