on Kevin the Opstedal's 54th
birth is being torn by the roots
from a cloud of squid then thrown
into a stainless steel bowl of cherries
where inadequate conversations
sound too much like the sexually
transmitted literature of common
men who never quite realize there
will be no services for the next 75
years give or take a few bad miles
through the churchgoer hospital
corridors all because a real poet left
the owner's manual out in the rain