for Steve Halle
Dear Mongolian Death Worm,
No one is safe from my bureaucracy of cheese. We may as well pretend that this high-salt Easter is a peanut of plenty. But digging deeper we find overt Elizabeth, filthy with time. Yes of course this is straight from the heart.
Now I am in my spidersuit and running for Wolf Catcher of the World. Don't think you'll tell me how much you "like" me: I know.
Hurry up and turn that tumor over while I got my mind set on it. No parents are home to give us gumdrop drips, so just call every woman man and child to sharpen the blades of this straight-talk lawnmower. You know the way. It's just a little tickle, nothing serious like what's seeping through the wall.
Friday nights I stay home and watch Queen of Sheba reruns on my gunmetal eyes. Click this, click that, bushy-tailed and karaoke-red.
Begin interview with hard right, then throw over and stabilize somewhere two miles below center. Then query each node crushed underfoot before dicing and eating. Don't get all, you know, accusatory on me. In this new order we'll take it one spay at a time.