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There were no buckshots
in the making
melting pot
of bad guys but realism
is back the finite number
has returned like crane
like
migration windstorms
even perhaps yes droughts

Females hard to come by
in light of dictatorship
healthy madness
the same system overlapped
rooted though in cash
bills cash money lights

cubic centimeters
fuel cells rupture
diamond rings and things

The real topic is murder
but everybody knows its
there the real topic is cry

Does he cry I don't know
I wasn't looking for that

Too busy jogging holding
up tomes of poetry as
fat expanded contracted
pregnancy of fat of lit

church tower broken glass
and the real question
how the hell was this thought of
but afterward nothing special
all made of broken glass
and spinning bells clicking

its time to eat your pecans
your mint chocolate chip
detriments prerogatives

A poem can't be finished
because it's time to work

A romance can't be started
because Bond's just busy