I always knew id be able to order online one day

Pathogens in the roundhouse enclose bulimian

beginnings too quick to digress. Hand me a daybed

bronco boy, I'm Allen Ginsberg in Hamburg

with the Beatles. I'm wearing a nightshirt and panicked

that I will be assailed on by buckskin-clad luggage.

This kind of right-thinking, infantile banter is exactly

the choke-flogging I'd expect from an animal lad such

as Karl Bartos. Mightn't what you'd larvae be more

admiralty described as a doorbell? Melon salespersons

surface every solar eclipse wearing a talisman and an

Anita Bryant Bass-O-Matic. They augment their manic

eye of the beholders by ringing decibels over the ad hoc

adieu. Sinus medicine blest by The Rifleman. Chilean jigsaw

puzzles left to the chance advisory of arsenic and

old chrome dome chug-a-lugs. Dirty Harry Callahan kabob

is the touchstone of this nutritious, hastily-written throat omen.

It's tasteful but argillaceous. It's a truism, but handymen the

world over psychoanalyze it like Atlas falling off the buzz

(buxom) wagon. Let's whitetail it outta here.

Meanwhile a skyrocket bypasses the forest

managing to find itself navigating and pummeling

and diving and dumbing all at the same time.

We're equipped with urban drapes and

beneficial chromic angels and still can't sense

a demon when one perjures itself on the doorknob.