They talk a lot about the mold and jock-
itch of the soul. Spider eggs. The bloody
Mugshots of chickens. But there aren’t no tourists to wake in a sweat, ost of their ponies and vagabond maps, wearing those ludicrous blueberry smiles because of Heavyweight, Everest. Meanwhile, in Albuquerque. Winds:
N. NW With not not the wattage of knot and watt of attitude, Lynche’s eraserboards, Beckett’s man-nequins. A dropped laundry list of bitten and dog-chewed coins, over which they’ve not
quite literally scribbled in crayon, ‘Burn all the clothes; Delray, Dr. Hilarious.’ The emoji’s tears
tear and jerk down the screen of the scroller, which is (darling) you.