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 fogβs 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 darlingsβ¦ but my hands are made of dented chrome and dendrites unmanned by sanity in favor of an alcove of dauntless Awe. Iβm 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.