The flesh of her butt jiggled like water-filled beach balls, oil drops dangling from a soupspoon, oversized Jell-O dessert cups.

Dennis Vickers

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gleaming like a searchlight, Iowa moon, silver plate.

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Gasps erupted from his nostrils like grouse from a thicket, schoolboys onto a recess yard, grease spatters from frying bacon.

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Hung in the air like fart gas in an elevator, insecurity in a prom ballroom, guilt around a police lineup.

— Dennis Vickers

Whacked away under the desk like hail on a barn roof.

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Poetry comes out of you like a pot of oatmeal boiling over.

— Dennis Vickers