Their Titles Are Uncommon

Thelma Todd was found dead in a car.
The car she was in was in her garage.
Her parrot had an aversion to jazz.

There were traces of lemon zest on the plate.
The directories all called themselves definitive.
But the many different types of rice confused.

Wild fire chomped this hillside, he observed.
A lithograph depicts a blue sphere with ice fairy.
In their delirium the pigs pursued each other.

Condolences on your loss of reluctance.
The Players Club closed early that week.
A white birch was planted in Burbank.

Warner Baxter suspended his catechism.
Berlin could not play I Got Rhythm.
More delirium stirred in the shrubs.

Kirk Sampson wondered if this was gorse.
He’d heard of it in church with his aunt.
She loved the mortal threats and singing.

Was the victim Lutheran or Israeli?
A greasy pan and Monopoly laid out.
Embers still glowed in the fireplace.

Cesar Romero left the vestibule sobbing.
Below the hill the maid found something.
It was nearly swept away in the stream.

Thelma lounges in a bold print sundress.
Inappropriate for this late in the season.
The Santa Fe Express is in a state of crisis.

Bavarian steins line the fireplace mantle.
She’s on the sauce, into the nose paint.
On the soft imported carpet a ball of foil.

Crepes with sage and Elisha Cook.
In Sunnyvale the keys don’t fit.
There are none of her toiletries.

A broken nail in a dope fiend sampler.
The embers have been cold for an hour.
A golden clarinet sinks beneath the surf.

Was that a doll? Do you see candlelight?
His aunt liked to dress him as a Confederate.
Recreating the night of the counterattack.

One light in a dayroom window.
Pants, a sundress, a broken vase.
No automatic door opener found.

She looks stylish holding sway in the club car.
No one sees the blood on her rhinestone ring.
Episodic blackouts, coke and nervous laughter.

Johnny Sheffield, too young to drink, does.
There is no dominion held in movement.
The conductor is an authoritarian relic.

One plain clothes man scours the guest room.
Another wakes her where she lies in a field.
Still singing Rockabye Baby to the sunrise.

When the call came in the Sergeant was aghast.
The maid tried to warn someone off by phone.
Three glasses with traces of a rare pecan liqueur.

That stream has been a dry bed for twenty years.
There was no response when we called the agent.
The property might be biddable, but it’s unclear.

She uses a special eyelash adhesive from India.
Fabulous tales of debauchery, shocking conduct.
She spent a night in the jug for vagrancy once.

As racy as vaudeville was, she retained her poise.
A roadblock closed off the lane to the bungalow.
Traces of toast crumbs, dark jam on the bed pillow.

In the culvert below the foothill, men dab at the ground.
A curious discovery, someone has defecated here recently.
No sign of the stranger, though a footprint is overlooked.

In the sand around the pool a black streak of dried fluid.
She required a constant supply of sandalwood and coke.
A small gun was hidden in the entry hall of the house.

A magazine called Hygiene Today featured male nudes.
A picture of a man partially torn from a cracked frame.
She swoops into the room in a long custom made frock.

The car veers erratically, speeding up the narrow lane.
There are hands involved, but not in a focused sense.
An insomniac neighbor sees the automatic door close.

She drives no handed to Burbank on a whim.
Says something inappropriate to a priest for fun.
A blank check in her name is made out to cash.

The coroner's men pack and quit the scene.
One steals a bottle of imported almond liqueur.
A thin blonde offers a counterman her ring.