Smack me in my Margaret thighs!
The wind’s made a full turn
and I am anxious

to find a mother in Kathmandu.
But this weekender yacht is a liking
to crap

made of American parts, no wonder.
Did you bring the paddles?
The feathers and glue?

Well spank my Barbara bum!
Look at this! We can raise our foot flags
save a lack of direction

in the stratosphere. What’s that you say?
Why can’t we choose a closer country
where body parts are more

laissez-faire? Well, seeing
as any kind of rowing is most dependent
on my Sandra arms

that would make sense.
But we all know
individuality doesn’t really exist
just as oceans don’t signify

an absence of
ground. It’s incorrigible the illusions
intelligence springs

like we are choked by a fourth arm
that really exists. Our
lady limbs will go on hanging

from wherever they hang
no matter what voyage we conjure
from what escape

to what next
whether or not our hawk boat
reaches the clouds.