i'm a wolf in a brick oven waiting for the door to open. If i'm gaunt and charred by then, which is likely, considering there's a bone in the air conditioner, kindly pull apart my jaws and remove Pennsylvania--a nuclear simmer--from my stomach.
Coca-Cola kids slouch in parking lots gambling for an endless summer. My veins swell; there's too much blood, and no place for it to go but my heart.
Fifteen punches to the stomach gave me an extra rib. Sometimes i throw it like a boomerang; it likes to come back and hit me in the face.
Nothing to do but throw, listen to records, and melt.