Points within the Gulf of Mexico

Propositions on Bonita Ave. left
Kenny $35 lighter in his duct tape wallet.
Slick and cold. Novel birthday present from the guys.

The darkened corner of Crawling Turtle Rd.
and Swamp Stink Blvd. brings
sunshine to the eyes.

Young and old women. Lost sisters and mothers.
Men dressed as women. Heavy makeup.
Suicide of the Adam’s apple.

Off to other corner
slouch shrimp.
They came up from New Orleans. Troubled crustaceans

dipped in the wrong sauce. Prematurely
removed from the ice platter.

“Let’s head to Tampa! I know some crabs,” one of them said.
“I’ll learn to roll cigars,” said another. “They do it in Ybor City.”
“My cousin went their and got run over by the trolley car,” said one in the back.
“In Ybor?”
“No. In Frisco.”

They’re not going to the Everglades.
Can’t live there. Evacuation of humans is

necessary for natural selected survival.
The raccoons talk to the pigs, and they chat with the ostriches,
and to crocs and gators, from a distance. They’d like to figure

out how to navigate boats with
giant fans on the back of them.

Blowing memories like exhaust.
Hot air spiriting from open wounds.