i’ve been told the 1950s make a great hiding place, neither windy nor cloudy, perfect for travel by bike. even the font size on billboards is bigger. there is also loads of alcohol & low-priced cars. some germs can cross kitchen counters in less than an hour. how fast can you get here? just kidding. what i mean is how do you get people to like you when yr wearing plaid golf pants & deliberate planet-blank-face? sorry not sorry. now that the doomsday clock is 90 seconds to midnight, i constantly collide with not keeping my mouth shut. i wish i were different. jokes, dear brad. the moon says I don’t have to be a woman just because history says so. what is visible romances, what is unseen attempts sensibilty. knitting dung coloured sweaters to match the shade of twilight kangaroos on yr golf course? crush me now. i’m a middle-aged poet not a mute spectator. a goddess with an android in my ethical shop tote bag, i birthed time from a fever dream while high on lsd in paris in 1964. my mind is a landmine. my boobs? starting guns. i fold temper into your tie #stranglehold. like one of eight moons in cold pressed paper, i contain multitudes. can   you   feel    the    negative   space     betw e  e  n       u  s
e  x   p    a    n     d    i      n       g           ?