On the corner of some dilapidated street, Clayton Overloo rolled down his window and tried selling toilet plungers to the pedestrian Nelson Vento. Skeptical at first to the plungers’ quality, Nelson resumed three spaces, but landed on a chute, sending him three steps back to Clayton. Nelson handed Clayton cash for thirteen plungers.
Two cops rushed in. Clayton, the undercover cop, chuckled. Nelson chuckled back. Nelson revealed that Clayton was more than just undercover, but undereducated.
Two special agents stormed in to arrest the cops. Nelson, the undercover client, smirked. A homeless man interrupted, claiming he was cold, and that he, too, was undercover.
Two angels then flew down and openend a gateway to hell where they all burned for eternity.

Jerry Foster

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

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
bread scraps.

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.