poem. My lunch spot at the end of a
disaster. In Oregon. An inability to
tumble into nonsense. Blue pipe
diapers. The General Assembly
is NOT your boyfriend. Clumsy
sex that always works. One
suave back-em-up after another
(watch each get replaced and
suavely). Go to hell, no-brainer.
It wasn’t really that clumsy.
Yardwork in the outbin.
Pucker up, inbox, the
Bradys are about to
chase us up one
end of the Pacific
and down the
other.
