Anyway, Anaplasmata act aptly and abstractly
Backhands ******* balky baklava
Caractal chasm chant "Catty cavalry can't"
Dactyl dada dawns Djakarta drab

Larva ask dab-tap shabby knack lad
"Ever elect effete experts elsewhere?"
A clad daddy wants a dark jab dart
Fleece fleets flee flecked flyspecks

Cleft feet eve expels three resew eres
Gentle germs gelde grebe's geyser
Cede effects leek fell pecks self lyfes
Hellbent helmsmen helped hexed herders hence

Glen's remelted eggs be Serge-Grey
It insistingly implys impish ipsissimis insipidity
He held next her belched sender heel
Jiggling jibs jinx jimmy's jill jig

Its smilingly spiny impish mississippi I-I-I Is It dinty?
Kidding kibitz kick killing kings kitsch
sigil sign jimmy jib jingling jil
Livid linitis limits limbs limp

Big **** kid kicks thinking gill's zit kink
Midriffs mimics Mis's minimizing mistypings
Slim villi distils it, mini blimp
nil ninhydrin nihilists nicks nyxis nightly

Ms Mmisty's zip disc, if firm, is miming mining
ontology on top of oophoron ostomy.
Hindi hint silly lynchings. Skinny nix I stir
phonology 'pon phytol plywood poops polyglots pompons.

Polygon hoof-moon on poor toys toot
qophs
phony thong ploy loops monolog poppy.  Woody plop! Psst!
Rooks romp rootstock rods

"Posh" - Q
Schoolroom scoffs scoop shockproof snort stools
Mock stork pro or door toss
Thyrotomy 'top torpor tot's torso

So-so rooftop honk slots. Morocco sloops off
Usufruct tu upchucks
Stormy troops root to tot trothy
Vulgus vult vults

**** such curt cut ups
Wrung wctu
Vulgus vult vults
Xu

Wrung WCTU
Yummy yurts
Xu
Zulu zymurgy

Yummy! Try us!
Lawman scandal any pay at a scab yap tat tartly
Zulu zymurgy
Almanac-scratch that-clay tract vacancy

The clouds gather and threaten me.
Little do they know what I've been through.
If they did,
They would know that their
Evil faces are nothing.
The lightning has hit me plenty of times.
They say it never strikes the same place
Twice.
It does.
You just don't see it coming.
Every time I feel the jolt,
I nearly die.
My hearts
Slows...
Slows...
Slows...
Until
I think
I'm going
To die.
But I don't.
I get struck again, but the spark revives me.
As the tingles run down my spine,
I try optimism.
It won't hit me again if I don't waiver.
But it does
Death,
Life,
Death,
Life,
It keeps changing.
I want to hit it back.
To hang on, go to its source,
And turn the switch.
STOP HITTING ME DANGIT!
I'm not a god.
I trust God though.
I don't know what kind of test this is,
But I trust
That someday
I will be
Shockproof.

I’m starting to think she may have died
gone up to blue tick heaven after being verified
Caught up in a mockery of an internet led democracy
World wide fame to blame for the tragedy
Her Tightened grip on reality was merely a saga of concise works of fiction.


She tried to Reach out for profanity and found a hundred degrees reality.
Well It all means nothing to nobody now
Here comes latest trend you’d be mad not to bow.

Been inactive for days lost track of the newest craze
Whilst her exploits were insightful
They ultimately led to her downfall
Spin the wheel line up to play the game
Because nobody remembers your name
Only your handle.

I’m starting to think maybe she lost her mind
all of the tape unravelled when she tried to hit rewind.
There was no filter there when she opened the window to look outside
without the second source she was unable to decide
she went offline to go backpacking in the sky I wonder why?
It all seems so alternate
With her curtains drawn at the break of dawn it seems so analogue.
She had a shockproof phone case but I can’t say the same for her mind

Okay
The four-letter word
They say
When you’re not
When these bloodstained hands
Are tired, frustrated, and angry
From building walls
Hiding tombs
When this tear-stricken face
Cries rivers all night
Its not okay.
I don’t believe it.

So, can you hear it?
Listen, to the silence
growing louder and louder.
Listen, to the beats
drumming inside my chest.
Listen, to the moaning
pleading for help.
Listen, to the trembling
shaking my chains.
Listen.
Can you hear it?
Can you hear me?

Will it ever stop?
The hurt runs too deep;
The pain cuts too hard
Make it stop.
Someone, anyone.
Please, help me get out.
Out of these chains,
These weights that drag me down.
Into the darkness,
Where the evil things
Shout, hurt, pain, and, sorrow.
They lash out with
Their spiked tongues
With there conniving words.
Help! I reach out
Someone, anyone.
Help!

And there,
A voice whispers.
In the midst of the darkness,
In the midst of the battle.
The quiet beautiful whispering
That says,
Stop.
Take a good long look
Around you.
Remnants of the broken heart,
Broken souls, and broken spirits.
The broken things
Are slowly being mended
With bulletproof, shatterproof,
Shockproof, waterproof coating
Shining with new found strength
Molded by the hurt, pain, and sorrow
That sent chills of what looked like
Defeat.
You never were and cannot be
Defeated.

Don’t forget that.
You can count on the
Rainbow after the storm,
Treasure under the dirt,
And the light at the end of the tunnel.
So I dare say,
It will be okay.

Okay
The four letter word
They say
When you’re not
But ill wash these bloodstained hands
And ill dry this tear-stricken face
Mustering enough strength
To believe, to hope
It will be okay
Someday, if not today.
It will all be okay.
Okay?

backwater Ophelias

clamp down on flinting

ice.

her first blanched splash

floats the many more

of her.

foresworn shockproof

flowers blush her head,

as they do her toe.

bitter murk cross-eyed...

following along.

still.

My Chrysler was a survivor. Hidden piles of broken glass and leather seats split to foam. Summer of ‘99 and sailing down a gravel road named after a tree and a stone. And when we came to a stop, the dust did not. Meanwhile, the radio implores me to get it back 2 good.

I drag my sneakers with white socks pulled up to the shin to the only lonely structure on this stretch of land. A pole building painted ivory and evergreen. It’s mostly empty and smelling of raccoon **** and rusted metal. I grab the machete from the bench and get to work.

My squinted gaze is locked on the acres of horseweed ahead as I dramatically roll my eyes and walk down a freshly mown path. The unending task of the swing and the hack. Piles of severed green. My dad might call this agricultural TLC, but I am feeling very unpretty.

I distract myself from the labor with my Sony Walkman—mustard gold. She’s got EXPMAX technology with 40-second shockproof memory. The headphones move from my sissyneck to my sissyears and I’m pulled by a derelict wind to anywhere other than my own body.

That is, until the blade hits bone. My kneecap is now split in half by a sanguine smile. Its teeth of bubbling fat laugh at how my husky body runs. Its small mouth pouring its way down my calf. My sock, now a magician, is changing colors with effortless conviction.

The panic carries me down the street. Bless the neighbors and their butterfly bandages. Bless the glass of lemonade and a ring to my mother. Bless this memory buried deep under scar tissue purple and pink.

I now realize my first car and I had something in common. All this blood and gristle and glass needed an impact to be set free. Baz Luhrmann told me to be kind to my knees. But I blame it all on the ******* horseweed.

In Times New Roman, I font
to hitch wagon to a star.

Alias Adobe Jenson Albertus Aldus here
wed Alexandria (Algerian, an all around
American Typewriter gal) scattershot
with Antiqua ancestry, she told me
after I Aster while Aurora Borealis

shimmered overhead, while temporarily
embarking on long day's
journey into night
("yule Jean," I uttered
for no particular reason,
while taking a knee).

Upon spontaneous spur of moment
(not prematurely *******)
whim we pledged our troth
courtesy local Justice of the peace

at a pitstop named Baskerville
renown for landmark Bell
designed by Georg Belwe
in collaboration with inscription
by poet and cleric Pietro Bembo.

Whatsapp parent tis obvious influence
upon Berkeley Old Style,
plus subtle nuances difficult to discern,
nonetheless affecting one
Bernhard Modern as well

incorporating bankrupt trumpeting
apprentice Giambattista Bodoni
envisioning aspiring career as Bookman
titling initial publication;
The art of the deal.

Linkedin to aforementioned
aliens perhaps...maybe...
lost tribes of Israel long since
swept into dustbin of history,

a puzzling hyperlinked conjunction,
but with nebulous, mysterious,
gaseous, ambiguous
personage, and/or place
merely identified as Bulmer.

As iterated, we decamped
in proximity to Caledonia known to me,
a transplanted Californian FB,
who spent countless blocks of time
shuttling to and fro Calisto MT,
where pennies pitched into
fountainhead with Atlas shrugged.

Thee above ayn nee auld
rand (dom) blurb
invites intimations, yes...
viz pre Cambria yen
humanity awoke, where

sophisticated indigenous peoples
sparsely outnumbered,
they nonetheless compensated
minuscule population size
vis a vis did intriguingly fashion
(bug a boo)

underground elaborate Capitals
two identified as Cartier,
and Caslon Wyld
housing many a "FAKE" Antique,
circa Fifteenth Century
purported predecessors of Catull farmers

easily mistaken for garden variety
prehistoric Asian Tsen
Centaur re: yen creature,
what with Century Old Style,
Century Schoolbook,
New Century Schoolbook,

Century Schoolbook Infant
teenage ninja mutant turtle vestige
aligning their (ain't fib)
be yen cool visionaries,
donning tortoise shell bifocals,
otherwise affixed i.e. born that way

with poker faced purblind outlook,
and whose shockproof
shell acted carapace
tricked out to unseen observer
as an eye opening spectacle.