| Persimmon you walk like a geisha into the bedroom wearing white socks and wanting to wave your fan my hands feel you persimmon the oblate fruit astringent ripe my lips pucker and pluck through the folds of your pink calyx center and you make little winter moans budding blooming into a hundred perfect blossoms male and female my face puckery at the final pungent purgative purposeful push into susan © Tom Schwider |
| Tom Schwider lives a mundane
life of little significance in Chicago. His only hope is that string
theory is correct, that there are eleven dimensions, and that some day he might find that one of those dimensions makes a little more sense
than the one he is in now. In the meantime he depends on good books to get him through the day. |