Pindar carving horses out of instituted soap
“Storm-swift” horses clocking rhomboid contour
into the afterworld— song’s demi-glaze encasing
moneyed sky, custard blush. Heracles made pillars
being tubes that siphoned cash all the way
into the 90s. Everyone was busy remembering
the titans. Rick Moranis was the definition
of deliciously not wearing your glasses to work.
This past like a radial farm you sidled out from
The force w/ which the dog ate, throws up grass
fastens the opalescent ropes course you’re riding
to grave school. If Pindar wrote a poem about
my dad it would be somewhat about sports, mostly
why not to let desire eat the world ur care creates
