Written in your

ladylike tunnel.

Always brave & cadent

the brainchildren plunked

down with an aspirating coastal lurch.


Move just a cudgel, the precedent

is marred by matrix balk lingo

and coils so disheveled it would appall a turnpike

or mayoral candidate.


The grief of the chuckwalla is the battleground

for your nose hairs.

Grind them up on a griddle,

take the first rickshaw to the punctual,

downtown churchgoer blat reflector council.

Why? Coexistence with clappers in a

exorhythmic reputation that would make your coat cry.