Makes Sense. Find me a plumber I’ll plunge you some time. In candy rhyme of a toothless noon to an argonaut, or was it a centaur. Minotaur? I get them confused in the foamy Greek parfait and who wouldn’t express revulsion or even horror in dreams of singular sheaths, plural living spaces and arcane wontons. Humdrum Hundun and Orphic eggs spark primordial why but all I feel is the terror of those who lost their faces on that early episode of Star Trek and oh the manliness of Kirk.

Locomotion. Wit drives your appendages madly, in love with the shimmy. Call it anything you’d like, or green onion. We must memorialize, subversively and with sadness, the gravitas of healers and twelve wheels to sunrise. Don’t sleep on a matted sheep. Don’t dream on the barley and hops. Hips will move you. Yippy yah, hippie yo.

You Know What I Mean? I spoke to the cheek today, an off day, awfully offal and presumably edible. We need protein that bleeds, foreign substances that reflexively question authority, and judges who remain pale, yet compassionate. With facial rare, or hair of dogs that doesn’t inspire dander shudders, flutter thee not. I’ve got cop fatigue, I said it, or Dengue fever, I don’t see differences or appreciate consequences unless they bare souls in finger bowls, brave parents of the wild child.