A member of a girl cult knocks
on the door and you haven’t
any batter. Most seasons
you embrace amnesia
but this courting requires
anemone. Or at least a
pheromone or two.
Tulsa’s on the
phone, another crock
of bric-a-brac is
chunked into the
ocean. Live fast
and die orgasm. But
that’s too old-fashioned.
Trade up. A whole
bottle of mottos
for a slim bag
of tater tots.
