My name is Foster, Jerry Foster. That’s F as in fruit stand; O as in options of fruit within this fruit stand; S as in the search for the owner of this fruit stand; T as in the tree where this owner sleeps; E as in the escape from a suddenly irate hawk; and R as in the realization that the fruits must have been imported from a far away land, for beaks were popping out of them. Again, my name is Foster, Jerry Foster.
In court, the judge passes a basketball after calling a foul
ball from his phone, crashing the party, and declaring that
the nude basketball tournament is cancelled due to a ban
on basketballs, chiefly the nude ones (without any logos).
Nationwide, basketballs burn within pits, some surviving
in the underground via rodents having courts of their own.
In time, basketballs are granted the right of a court, the left
belonging to the Church. Occasionally, the priest dribbles
over his sanctified water, demanding remorse for stealing–
they pass–along with the judge whom passes the ball rolling
alongside the road, distrustful of hitchers. Albeit, the balls
bounce all night long.
O’ Kristin how your duck feathers lure me;
come out from the pond. Let’s dine at sun-
set peer where humans throw heart-shaped
O’ Kristin, your too many fingers wisp
mine so delicately, but must they be so full
of pudding? I am yours regardless. Let’s sit
under stars until we wish ourselves purple.
O’ Kristin, every time you speak, you blow
out love spells, but crickets too. Let’s hold
each other hostage. Let’s burglarize! Let’s
pillage! All in the name of love.
A rationalist once presented such fool-proof evidence that his map was the reality of what it was representing. Menus were eaten, photographs were deemed more important than the moments they captured, and utopian manifestos were given credence over their resulting dystopias.