JON DAN TRAVI AT 33
The pans in the fig tree signal the season
the bloody clovis cries out to his father
for the shimmier Season of the which
cake-in pleasantry must hit the ceiling,
a Ballard ballad under the City Park
interstate ogre-me edens a littery, piebald
setting for seating a new birthday
rear duchess.
Perhaps we will salute you
lasso you in for a few lashes
hurl cupcakes at concrete and call it a night.
Grimalicious and 33, and great at You —
JT, you must enhance our mortal flirtations
turn lil pip wishes into seafood shell currency
something kite-tight for the shag in our souls.
Q
The last time we did this over the net
we were fired for loving on the job
catapulting us to fun war capital
and making a habit of wigs.
You were wearing one yourself
but it was your own hair.
(Light is the head ever in Greystoke.)
May your years be like a night of karaoke
never-ending. Keep shaking your
salt-and-peeper moulah maker :
we dig your hands-free pumping, we dig your
pix and your 10,000 words
for the mule.
25 mar 2009
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