I have silently fired the corrugated cardboard gun of suicide at my corrugated friend, lingering on the glare of broad Pacific as seen from high bluffs, bottles clinking, bottles and tubes looking at many (or some of us) without eyes, “flimsy excuse” for a man walking in my direction through a reflection, “mild promise” of a child thanking someone in the crowd for illnesses of dust, “pigeon wire” of adolescent corrugated friend obscured by telephone pole, writing a check for fusillade of crumpled papers which were owed to the corner of the room where the ants were reading, except for the blind ants, it turns out (all of them), pressed the corrugated friend on any Sunday as we aged in 2 dimensional houses, 2 dimensional cities filed under the subject heading, “national forest”


shot by corrugated trigger of cellophane of optimistic optometry, a squirrel tail of the runned-over squirrel in the street wiggle-waggles in a wind ever full of life, buns fresh from the oven of mislaid hours, buttered with best wishes from the sweet (or not) girls, the little breezes flushing life through all these leaves and copper wires and porous ceramic folks, doubly entertaining when they dip and dither, glad-hand and foreswear; as my copper-stained friend, hurtling laterally intermittently as sonic vibrations in the greenery, would put it over lacquer tray of cardiac