Matthew Romaine, p.7


Labrador retrievers bark at the fan performing the icky shuffle
in the parking lot patrolled by grievous cloud shadows.
This is all occurring within the reflection of the nightlights
bouncing off of boomer esiason’s helmet and face mask.
He is a blonde fuck-god and his mouth is an enormous sanctuary of perfect teeth
where his tongue lays like the florida-hunter’s great dead flamingo.

Then the hot cheerleaders come out and do the roger rabbit.
A tipsy dietician negotiates the cement stairs leading to the bathroom
and a blimp rains zweigels on the turf. The blimp is indoors!
We are gullible to believe that in this quaint containment belligerence
rears its head only in the yellow ribbon on that dude’s starter jacket.
That is not true at all. It could be anywhere, cheating us our leisure.