From the Fishouse

The fowl mouthed speak only of squaws:
trouble now and then – trouble
with the salad, onion, beets, and halitosis.
One to go: where are the mules?
who sold the ass? The cold’s in
and hate has no fire – sleep on, Dalmatian,
the clawed saver – sometimes pockets appear
without pants. Take a pile, saw nightly –
there’s little to the left and big a plane ride
away. Everyone’s an Indian these days – peace
kittens, love kittens, quiet kittens, we can do it
small time kittens, kittens with dimples,
smart kittens, kittens that look like people:
vitamins for all in the nation, a new dawn
free of red clouds –
who sits beside you now?