The Red Wheelbarrow 3 : A Magazine of Poetry and Opinion
After traversing the globe on a bed of rice the length of a length of string, Bob Snugzabugnarug was shocked to find the lock had been changed on the back-door of his two-up eight-down puzzle-box of a shoe-horn slide-in confectionary store.
— Barbra’s gone again!, this man alone with this lonely thought thought, pulling the clothes-peg out of his zipper and ogling his future, wiggling in the wind like a mad-as-hell maggot on the end of a hook. — Twenty years of Basmati for breakfast and underarm welts and rashes the size of the Golden Ass’s ass. For this!, Bob blubbed, while chewing on a flea that had jumped-for-joy off the dog’s-hair shirt he’d ironed up special for his homeboy’s return.
Barbra surveyed her man from the self-same window where she’d cried every day for one thread of woolly-wool to stitch up her wounds. — Dammit, Dweezer!, she scowled to a full-length mink pelt on the foldaway-futon stained engrained with Bob’s best vintage ambrosia. — Never thought he’d be back!