Thomas Fink


to climb typhoon shell humming

a genesis-flavored

purgative or honeymood immolation.
Flag rant, percussive against convex
glaucoma alibi. Charisma

Your sackful of magpie-
spangled chaos experiments intimately on
the aorta chariot.

scoliosis in palsied bloomers
may revolt, as bloodshot shortcuts
are coasting on
margarine to a queen-size
shortfall. Why not, then, block
grants of vicar

that apostatizes retired geometry
oozing sable? If a mahogany
titleholder releases one
of a buffet buffeting
the trepidation frontier's jigzag tendril
keyhole, we can
into a chandelier chameleon
hatching Jacuzzi pardon for insolvent
gargoyles, cufflink-anchored
saloon cherries.

          -- for Eileen Tabios


have style, but do
they sabotage distinct pleasure?
ricochet. We could parallel
park a pastoral mansion

between what pleasure sabotages.
ellipsis chides the mere.
So leave me home

if you're gonna blend.
will you do with
that hair when you
are bald? Plain gold



tingle I have lotion over. Sand grows

behind excess. Pity that standard fail-
ure's gurgling allure neutralizes

the warmth of most shelf health nooks before they
can open. Even when you're jammed on a
rabble isthmus with

a defunct pal and salve of word-cola,
you might try breathing alien to pale
scarcity and spectral abundance. I
have not piloted a shucked seascape's
reactivation, so I will not scratch

for trust other than
the chance your dime has not been foolish this
go-round. Why do mansion networks want lots
of youse to believe they can be broken
into and harnessed? Success puckers up,
camera-ready, before we have rhythm
to factor man-hours
to uncage each vantage, as seminal

medicines laugh at tuition crisis.
So if the brainwind ain't brokered, don't fax.
You would skid on a local dunderhead
bliss into a closed robe disguising wall
barring the rankly
unofficial from maximum eros.
Time manages. He simpers more time than
he halves. Now should be the first clap where a
ripped credibility palace can be
funded. Get hewn, if that functions where you
survive. An ice-quiet
cove within her rugby may strut when no
one's prying. After strategically

painted glut harangues the national mid-
section, a bushy-tailed debit, lit
from behind, seasons
a welt lesson. What my kind wishes to
erase with them (perhaps with hardened white-
out) is expired sense that clings to teeth,
but if enough throng love their inner bore,
others die behind

a law. Should some neighboring masterpiece
drop in, you might make it your pram until
the recall buzzes. No name on his death
boat ever crowed, "I wish I'd bent less sub-
lime at the coif." That

frock on many a cream list is tackled
by an anonymous cheerleader. Their
crackling stadium turns out to be

a free pit. Id am aging. No reason
to sue the beach. You'll

never be solar unless you put that

be-all on an elf.

info on the writer
to go back to the home page