The red lobes of an angel—splitting
at the seams. An angry cloud that floats
just above the Tenderloin. Ready to lay an
egg. Ready to flummox the rutabagas (In
both senses; also called Swede, Swedish
turnip.). What to do with the rotten
mouth? Probably more than just
natural evolution. Who knows?
But...to deal with it appropriately.
How to keep from freedom (tendon?
boredom?)? The answers are all
nocturnal. Are we exertions
of each other, after all?
