Trios are not to be confused with ceviche (suhVEEchay). Trios are inedible. Trios consist,
among other features, of targets. (Alternately, Trios consist
of, among other features, targets.)

Refrigerate. Reduce scallops to tears, with a thin slice of weevil. Include agencies,
soviets, covens, jirgas and a peshmerga or two. They do what they can,
thinking it’s never enough.

The plumb bob’s devotion. Ah, such terrain! It is here
(not just anywhere), a perfect table
setting.

One notes chaos skulking amidst a necessary
obscurity. Also kanakas abusing
ukuleles.

Scented bubbles. White tiles like petite vault doors
enclosing toy pandas, dream
ing.

Perfection pierced with cocktail umbrellas, had stupid gas a sentient thing been,
in the foreground, pantry
moths.

Plenty of which to carry us when? To cakewalking back with Buonaparte’s horde
like bloated scarabs in tatty duds? Utah! Wetah!
Trios!

Kitsch inspiring zits. Wound-oozy martyrs approve. To be synchronous with plumbing’s
captive fluids, looks of anticipation, clouds doing what clouds do,
thanks to you, comrade sky.

X endures, Y not so much. What next wonders the plug snug in its jug
and so do you. Have we climbed the wrong ziggurat?
Ducking’s an option.

Tree surgeon in error lynched. Good luck deposits where Mother Lode lodges.
I shall too soon to achievements aspire, crafting illusions
of moist effusions.

When off a roof a walkabout stumbles, nasals oboe dirge morose,
cello, tuba, trombone euphonious. It’s in the pavement
dissonance dwells.

Aflame the ballroom at which one arrives for modish bamboula,
opaque with smoke, spattered Maz
ola.

At ante-matter one fusses and fumbles, bigger even than
phantom conundrums. Is this even
possible?

Question accountancy. Investigative poetry demands it. Suns set,
onslaughts befall. Your years differ from mine,
beginning at the orphanage.

Heard the one about the Senegalese merchant?
Seems his camels are strangers.
Strange camels.

Above all else (hands to breast), Mother of God! They say I shall hurt me,
yes, they do say it. The deed will remain
in the family aisle.

Why does Respighi gnaw his fedora? One declines to water seedlings.
The future lies. Rifts in Ancient
Airs and Dances.

As any sniper knows, success is the carom’s best friend. How less than fulfilling
to aspire to the heavens imagined through a ceiling that falls on
one’s face. Moon. Crickets. Stars.

In discarding oneself one could, I suppose, aim for the trash and achieve thereby,
of courtesy and comity, a comely
simultaneity.

Kit Carson’s dead. Because we have our wisdom teeth
we understand that these things
happen.

I seem the buffoon in Donald Duck pumps? Is it, again, the vision thing? Is it bad judgment,
the hours spent quacking, dreaming duck dreams, seeing the stars
as eggs to be cracked?

This leg I’m on might be my last. It’s also tough on elderly voles. How to queue?
By size? By diploma? As little drips maelstroms begin, no more alarming
than ziti al dente.

Guillaume Apollinaire, Guillaume de Machaut, Billy the Kid,
William B. Williams, utility
bill.

Colleen, my colleen, o’demeanor kayacky, your features I bathe in dancing confetti,
the kind one dumps from high office
windows.

Osaka noodles! Hai! Banzai! So why does a lady
have a roach on her
libido?

Knee-deep in mud. How to upgrade:
Shop for an arm
oire.

Assemble the family. Hand out cotton swabs. Explore
ear canals. You will not rot, crack, warp
or splinter.

Bus-shat baggage (ecumenical chortle). What drew you to this Trio,
the gurgle or the hiss? Did anyone
warn you?

The vegetables are cheaper, the girls are more willing,
the toilets stink, spring is
everywhere.

— after Heine