Those elephant feet
Disgrace your mold.
Honey, try toting through some
Sevens, or sixes, and never your eights.
Your calves elucidate
Hercules thighs. I
Suggest you sweat out
Waterfalls, to sausage-like them. Continue reading “Jane Odartey: Panting in Feminine Hues”
From Alpine, the brief stretch to Marfa, and
onto forlorn Van Horn: more dead mammals
than should exist, just bits of animals,
of blood and fur, smearing the road. The land
looks barren, yet it yields this horde of lives,
as evidenced by deaths so numerous.
Continue reading “Scott Wiggerman: “The Slaughter””