& Discontent’s Breath, Ballerina-Themed
Maurice Oliver
In this scenario its not the rhubarb in the garden but the umbilical
code with italics sprinkled on it. Blessed are the anti-depressants
or a debonair French painter disguised as a pole dancer in the
glove compartment. The soft kid gloves are black and articulate.
There’s a yo-yo with no string. A small surface cut bleeds from
the superdome and none of those are always horror films. So I fish
the eager story grilled to perfection. I add lemon juice squeezed
from Mount Sinai and take a bit of Little Rock. Even Korean vets
use my bayonets. Paradise seeks admission and is willing to pay
a large bribe for the gingham whodunit. I wanted to eat all of Taiwan
when I was a girl but settled instead for a hangman’s noose in a
new bathing suit comparing our hairy legs, but he died years ago.
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