The Olive Garden

The post-avant is a basket
comprised of breadsticks shaped
like eggs shaped like breadsticks.

Marjorie Perloff said grow up.
An Easter bonnet begins
with the thought of

contraceptives, a little fuck
you to Lent. Distinction begins
with endless tossed salad,

whereas pasta
is never-ending. The Cardinal says
Let’s get all moonstruck

in the city of angels
because the journey toward mutual
disenchantment begins with tossed

locks and a thought of touch.
And because Space is a child
of Time, our heavenly summer

subletter couldn’t stop herself
a wall away from us from singing
the messiah’s hallelujah!.

Yes. The post-avant was our heavenly
Mary in her jean jacket and tossed
sonnet, singing moonstruck

on our honeymoon in Vegas.
In her cage, she’d lay the golden eggs
Marjorie Perloff would habitually

eat up. The continental breakfast
buffet was complimentary and
balls-to-the-wall never-ending,

an endless fuck. I was a child
and he was a child in a homeshare
just off Pacific Street, Thirty-four

Saint Marks. Those were
the reasons. And that was New York.
Whatever happened stayed.