Six words!
the moon explodes. night-dark destitute

Four Words!
impression real unreal halucinatory

Disconnected

1.

I am at the balloon-man’s cart

Under the old porch of Grisham’s box

With men and women throwing out of the door

their evening-selves- the street suffocates

And young children pull the string

of my helium headed body

That is sold for a rupee!

2.

And a strong wind forced the destitute

-the old anemic leaves, and crisp twigs,

The unsatisfied paper out off the window

It tried the dresses on the clothesline, none fitted, strewn

My face with eyes and lips still at its place

Under the weight of his nose

3.

How should we not be hypocrites?

We dodge truth

beneath the embroidered fancies

and filigree of social strictures.

A soft baked morning

The gurgle of melted piano reed

maples and framed glasses

the moon you admire

I posted it off the eternal print

It has no nerves, no ribs