on the stoop, I glue my tuckus to a plank of mundane as the Chevys cruise in the turquoise Tannebaum of Twilight, churning shadows into velvet. I surrender when the fog’s kiss, lifts the Veil and I ponder It. I choose where my dyslexia is a coin and barter for less dementia. serving silent things in the tapestry of untapped maladies, masquerading as polymer gods in a hedgerow of impossible odds. I fumble for my keys like the rest of you darlings… but my hands are made of dented chrome and dendrites unmanned by sanity in favor of an alcove of dauntless Awe. I’m barging into a rumination, as we speak. taking the hill of a landscape as a Sharkfin- gloating in Existential Soup. My egga roll, something less discreet than Yellow Journalism in a Lava Lamp as Lovers do.