This is where the typhoon starts— <br />inside the fourth paragraph, <br />ten city blocks away, <br /> <br />where the neurosurgeon halfs <br />La Celestina, where you occupy <br />the spot under that Tiffany lamp, <br /> <br />where Edgar Rice Burroughs laughs, <br />where sugar cane is thigh <br />high, where you apply lipstick, <br /> <br />where the address numbers <br />are transposed, where hearts <br />take on airs of Parisian avenues, <br /> <br />where Mexican silver coins <br />are exchanged for salt, where <br />there is no fine line between art <br /> <br />and pornography, where the big <br />gingerbread boy answers <br />to the name of Alfredo, where you <br /> <br />take that moment to adjust <br />to my poem, where the metaphor <br />escapes from your throat.<br /><br />Nick Carbo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/typhoon-signal-no-1/
