from cured in the going bebop
MICHAEL GIZZI

My dream a cycloramic cul-de-sac neighborhood Nautical Street. Canvas on cobblestone, Corliss in corduroy footlights by the bay. Like New Orleans in New England, hearing every living aspirin, a washcloth with a story: "Enough about me, Mr Back-from-the-Orient." Angel-headed heebie jeebies. All ingrained firehouse politeness and Ealing movie wild coast with cottages out the bedroom window. Genuine Wimbledon nose-colored loveseats. Evening crapshoots on the Rez. And blow me down, my anti-gravity pants have split, like a pink elephant's appetite.