where the writers are
new poem, not my favorite

In the Endless Backyard, Part 5

A goat race. Your brother hanging onto
the pocket of your pink shorts. World's
Largest Horse. Endless shrieking, coming

near but never arriving. World's smallest
dog. Smeared glass boxes, cracked, with
bones inside. The hat worn by Jesse James.

Shake the hand of the man made of rubber.
Two liter cup of orange soda and all
the popcorn you can eat. A midget who

won't look at you sitting at a target.
A horse fly shining in your brother's hair.
A truckfull of fathers smoking. A man

swearing as he tears off the head
of a stuffed zebra. Your heel in a puddle
of beer and piss in the elephant tent. A tiny

elephant with a half-closed eye. The tickle
of a trunk, slow on your palm. Bet on number
the loudspeaker says, lucky number 9.

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You DO get around.

Each image a gem; I don't know why the horsefly in the hair arrests me more than some of the (certainly more unique, ickier) others. I have to ask: Blonde?

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Thanks! Am I blonde or is

Thanks! Am I blonde or is he?

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There's something unusually

There's something unusually arresting about the image of a horsefly in short, straight blonde hair; so close to, but not actually on, the scalp. Don't ask me why. We had killer horseflies when / where I grew up.