Large Man on peach sandel

Sitting ahead of Kentucky Igloo, or a tootsie pop The waxing chipping gold of a contintental breakfast A winter morning IHOP His head is up wind Nose down right When the flesh enters him through the healthy, whale eye twilight, zoned. His chins are not and shall be not be not be not be not be at rest, from this huge fourty four until his day of pancakes But here they lie, glued, clasping one another like terrified sisters in the woolen womb of sandal The rain that shouts through nearby shanties, the dead ass, smoothes his hair, weathering the stung of this peach's pose All pears witness and insulate the last peach The bowl of froot on the table next to the man, the sandle. the rubbercement walk she stand upon Her extravegant periwinkle dress, Her choppy steps, the gilded leather of her baby shoesies The DAMN very air! The black whirririrriringlingding of the camera, and weight of the tape rewinding fee. Of the Large Man on the Peach sandal [sic]. Amen.