birds flapping their wings to **** me off, spring time in Paris: home of the super French. They happen upon all things Frank, they eat, they love, they battle worldly strife & bathe religiously (Sundays). Knuckle down to a night of French knuckling. It's palms up for Jesus, a holy strip of Jerusalem & spaghetti for everyone. Super Joy Hammer French slivers of what wood was, sherds of what glass's become.
   There's universal joy across the solar ellipse, lunar holes
where cheese once lain, mind over splatter, wigs that
cover the back of one's neck.