the little Funky town…next to where we were.
Momentum of acorn’s debris.
lackadaisical-ly, organized chaos.
Melody out on the edge of no particular place.
Bias go free.
As the inner tantrum deliver’s rare, raw, sanctum days.
A remembrance of hoodlum and humdrum.
No royalties here.
Just misogynistic femininity.
Proper places where talking mannequins feel fit.
Vintage homesteads…playing dead.
Forks stuck in the dead-end road.
Worth the whiling away of long, straw, days…and, slower than molasses, evenings.
Living out softly.
On the shoe strings and pedigrees.