Elaine Equi

Leave it to the street vendors of NYC to improvise a shrine from whatever they find, setting a place at their table for animal and divine nature symbolically joined with color-coded floral candelabras.

We have orgies at home. Tonight, it’s The Book of Mormon.

Look deep into the blueberry eyes of  breakfast.

The silver hour drops— a spider on the mirror. * Silver the hour like drops of a spider’s mirror. * The silver drops, the spider’s hour, the mirror . . .

How much greener is paint than grass, especially in winter.

They don’t play loud music. They don’t have a dog. I think they’re both mimes.

cheerful stoic epic cozy corporate convalescence hollow gold-brick rhetoric almighty and sleek

even if we won’t admit it. Getting off the subway at Canal St. — I wonder if the author is a man or a woman? A teen? A team?

are all that’s left of Gray’s Papaya on 8th St.

Sometimes the blue in Blue Hawaii gets lost. But Elvis’s eyes speak pure Esperanto.