Heat (the opposite of Thank You)

Heading the opposite of East

The wind blew hot through a hollow straw

There there

Sunset following down

Passing the

smells of dead flesh

sounds of tapping typewriter keys

Mixed morbid ants crawling

Lobsters hanging off the walls

Barbecues falling off balcony ques

Stale organic coffee stuffed down jeans in marble sconces

Molding sodden doors fold open top down like wet playing cards

It’s an anger of red hot florists fleeing to get out of the sun all wearing lace fascinates

Polished nails in the air

Flying gnats

Red ants

Beehive mittens

Gloves shaped hands,

no touching compadre!

Rows of sardine children
Thwarted with oars one by one
on their thin backs, hiding in polyester oil sleeping bag chairs

Watching it all from the conductor’s stool a short otter dressed as a human womankind break dances on a mojo Pogo stick yellow springs and hydrologic smiles.

There’s so much applause it fills up the auditorium and because of recent renovations there is nowhere for the swelling swollen sound to go, swirling around fat ankles in socks and stockings streaming up trousers legs and skirts and down esophaguses-of-guests, claps of mustard gas up against theater dams walls where everybody including the woman otter drowns slowly like moths in lamps, mouths locked open to the sky in a swarm of warm thunderstorms.