TWENTY-FIVE WAYS OF LOOKING AT JEFF PARKER'S BALLS
As lessees of a mid-grade sedan, like an Elantra.
As essential inertia, a fever that reduces houses to ash.
As the subject of an index under the listing, “magma.”
As garlic assassins prowling under bubbling spinach artichoke dip.
As pairs of prissy jeans with spangles sparkling in the electric night.
In lithe complement to the weight the devil hooks to his brow.
In an assurance that your blood sugar will weep after a trip to Orange Julius.
In a deep depression brought on by a gazetteer that neglects mention of raisins.
In macho competition among three Texans, two trumpets, and a trampoline.
In a leg of lamb lording darkly over the tender toes of a gout-riddled forefather.
From the mouths of the wait staff at TGI Fridays urging Oreo cakes.
From a prawn farm in Australia, collective dreams of the Barbie.
From a prison that jails the Ovenmen and leaves their pizzas untended and burning.
From an homage to James Brown recorded by Anthrax featuring Jay-Z.
From the bottom of a spittoon after a night of cowboys and blackjack.
Through an expedient Netflix subscription that delivers Emmanuelle.
Through a quiet canal in a willowy gondola (beneath a husky mustache).
Through the highs and lows of an amorous affair with a genie boom.
Through the smashed grain of a tortilla chip the plasmic salsa of renewal.
Through the frosty refrigerator of a limping blond florist.
To mix lead and anger to make a usably soft toxic velveteen rabbit.
To affix a Gaelic window to your inside voice and seduce a knobby tree.
To protect sincerity like a tiny umbrella over a Mai Tai.
To poke an easter egg with a stick and see it rise from the dead.
To force an ant into an anthill empty-handed.